Thomas Moore

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections
    Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
    Men have required in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
    Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;--
Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy,
    Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1]
The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,
Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2]
The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar,
    So that their Kings had not red hair--
This fault not even the greatest stickler
    For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduced from various nations.
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,
    Touching...

I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess--
    As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess--
    It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,
A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1]
Which shone by moonlight--as the tale is--
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all
    And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
    Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
    Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
    At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy--and ...

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There's naught so much disturbs one's patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
'Tis like that sort of painful wonder.
Which slender columns, laboring under
    Enormous arches, give beholders;--
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemned to smile and stand at ease,
    With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are born into such places--
If they are there by Right Divine
    Or any such sufficient reason,
Why--Heaven forbid we should repine!--
    To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, even to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith--and he,
    Of co...

PROEM


        "The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them."
        --SOAME JENYNS


Thus did SOAME JENYNS--tho' a Tory,
    A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
    Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,
    Appealed to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls--
    All in the name of the blest Trinity;
Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,
That mighty Northern salamander,[1]
Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom o...

The money raised--the army ready--
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune ""Eh, eh, Sire Àne!"[1]--
Naught wanting, but some coup dramatic,
    To make French sentiment explode,
Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,
    And make the war "la dernière mode"--
Instantly, at the Pavillon Marsan,
    Is held an Ultra consultation--
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
    What stage-effect, what decoration,
To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious pirouette,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of Magnifique!"
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once--"What for?"
After some plans proposed ...

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think--
    Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,--

And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
    (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
    As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever
    Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then--but hold--'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:--

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
Close to his gate, some rascal...

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese,
    The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1]
Who had with all the subtleties
    Of old and modern jurists stockt her,
Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,
    And over hearts held such dominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
    To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
    Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,
    And quite forget their jurisprudence.
Just so it is with Truth, when seen,
    Too dazzling far,--'tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
    She thus can safest leach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reigned, we're told,
A little Lam...

Fairest! put on awhile
    These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
    In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
    At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
    As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays
    And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
    With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs
    In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
    That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,
    That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
    He hath been won down by them;--[1]
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
    Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet...

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel!
    Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
    Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
    On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
    Now lights thy path no more.

LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem--
    Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,[1]
    Her power thy glory's throne.[2]
Till evil came, and blighted
    Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]--
And Salem's shrines were lighted
    For other gods than Thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma--
    Then past her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4]
    The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
  ...

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,
That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round
    A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
    A single charm, that's not from Nature won,--
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
    A single tint unborrowed from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
    One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
    Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
    To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
    So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
    Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
    Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
    Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
    Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,
    If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
    Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
    That I keep my eye-beam c...

Fare thee well, thou lovely one!
    Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
    Love's sweet life is o'er.
Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell,
    Could scarce have thus deceived;
But eyes that acted truth so well
    Were sure to be believed.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
    Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
    Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still,
    True as stars they keep their light;
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil
    Of blushing always bright.
'Tis only on thy changeful heart
    The blame of falsehood lies;
Love lives in every other part,
    But there, alas! he dies.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
    Lovel...

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour.
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain.
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;


Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles--
Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over
    Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see,
Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover
Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,
    Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
    Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!

But here I free thee: like one awaking
    From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell;
'Tis over--the moon, too, her bondage is breaking--
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

Fear not that, while around thee
    Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
    Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
    Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
    Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
    Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
    But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
    Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
    For thy own peace forget.

Fill the bumper fair!
    Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
    Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
    Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame
    It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!
    Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
    Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,
    Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
    From the starred dominions:--
So we, Sages, sit,
    And, mid bumpers brightening,
From the Heaven of Wit
    Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first
    Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
    For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
    When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus...

        Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
        The war-steed's wakening ears!--
    Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
    And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
    Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
    With valor's fever at the sound.
    See, from his native hills afar
    The rude Helvetian flies to war;
    Careless for what, for whom he fights,
    For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
        A conqueror oft--a hero never--
    Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
    As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
        And gushed forever!

        Yes, Music, here, even here,
    Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.--
    There's a wild air wh...

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
    And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
    Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,--
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain
    To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that played
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
    To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks,
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning...