Thomas Moore

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know, that without thee
The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,
    Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
    To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past
Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,
    That chase one another like waves of the deep,--
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
    Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
    That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.
    The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy,
    With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
    And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
    Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
    And neglected his t...

This world is all a fleeting show,
    For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
    There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
    As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
    There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
    From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
    There's nothing calm but Heaven!

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
    Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
    And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
    Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
    Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
    Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
    Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
    And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,...

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay--
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,--
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away:
And many a heart, that then was gay.
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes;
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1]

(Air.--Unknown.)[1]


        "The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun.

        "Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter."
        --Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.


Thou art, O God, the life and light
    Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
    Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
    And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
    Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
    Thro' golden vistas into Heaven--
Those hues, that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with ...

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)


        "Evil, be thou my good."
        --MILTON.


How various are the inspirations
Of different men in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon on board wages
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward from that nameless spot;
His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings--
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings--
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's trick...

What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
    And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
    When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
    Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no--those times are past away,
    When, doomed in upper floors to star it.
The bard inscribed to lords his lay,--
    Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs with air dependent.
His "little bark may sail attendant"
    Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or taken by Murray's self in tow.
    Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale.
But bears on board some autho...

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)[1]

1832.


What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised
    'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!
And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised
    To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these,
    Clear the air of that other still viler infection;
That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,
    Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an Auto da Fe
    Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"
They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,
    And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!
    A volcano of ...

I sat me down in my easy chair,
    To read, as usual, the morning papers;
But--who shall describe my look of despair,
    When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!
That he--that, of all live men, Lefroy
Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"
Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasn’t manfully retrograde!
Only think--to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;
To annihilate--never to rise again--
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,
To keep together their bodies and souls!--
At a time too when snug posts and places
    Are falling away from us one by one,
Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,
Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride
Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle,
Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,
While to soft tunes--some jigs and some andantes--
He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,
That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;--
Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,
That lend their necks to his impartial rein,
And round the ring--each honored, as they go,
With equal pressure from his gracious toe--

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"
And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,
While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks
His long-lasht whip to cheer the do...

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
    Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
    Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
    The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
    'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
    I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now--alas! there's no deceiving,
    'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
    As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
    Or bring back him who loves no more.

nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13.


"Never shall woman's smile have power
    "To win me from those gentle charms!"--
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
    When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight--
    Still, tho' our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
    I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,
    And couldst no heart but mine allure!--
To all men else unpleasing be,
    So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
    Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
    Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power<...

If life for me hath joy or light,
        'Tis all from thee,
My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,
        Are but of thee, of only thee.
Whate'er of hope or peace I know,
My zest in joy, my balm in woe,
To those dear eyes of thine I owe,
        'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes,
        Seemed doomed to thee;
Kept pure till then from other ties,
        'Twas all for thee, for only thee.
Like plants that sleep till sunny May
Calls forth their life my spirit lay,
Till, touched by Love's awakening ray,
        It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights,
        She speaks by thee;
And dim would shine her proudest lights,
        Unshared by thee, unshared by thee.
Whene'...