The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 61

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle, For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.

Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells; Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by.

While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Thro' billows of woe, and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the sh.o.r.e.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

Oh! weep for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night.

And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds past soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame: But none will see the day, When the clouds shall pa.s.s away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay On the narrow path-way, When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; But there's a light above, Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

Let Erin remember the days of old.

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1]

Which he won from her proud invader.

When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2]

Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining: Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]

[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."--_Warner's "History of Ireland,"_ vol. i. book ix.

[2] "Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called _Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called _Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called _Bronbhearg_, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."--_O'Halloran's Introduction_, etc., part 1, chap. 5.

[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?

[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the ma.s.s-bell was to be the signal of her release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some ma.n.u.script translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; This moment's a flower too fair and brief, To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.

Your gla.s.s may be purple, and mine may be blue, But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?

No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.

Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west-- Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!