The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 138 : 'Twas the first opening song the Lay Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the y

'Twas the first opening song the Lay Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the young nymph, to while away The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:--

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all thy best array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on thee all that's bright and rare, The zone, the wreath, the gem, Not so much gracing charms so fair, As borrowing grace from them.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all that's bright array thee; The sun's below--the moon's above-- And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on the plumes thy lover gave.

The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, Victorious eyes advancing.

Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven From thee derives such light, That Iris would give all her seven To boast but _one_ so bright.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee.

And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Will beat when they come nigh thee.

Thy every word shall be a spell, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell The glory of thy way!

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fanned to rest, Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept-- Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile e'er he slept.

How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames The golden eve its l.u.s.tre poured, Shone out the high-born knights and dames Now grouped around that festal board; A living ma.s.s of plumes and flowers.

As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers-- A peopled rainbow, swarming thro'

With habitants of every hue; While, as the sparkling juice of France High in the crystal brimmers flowed, Each sunset ray that mixt by chance With the wine's sparkles, showed How sunbeams may be taught to dance.

If not in written form exprest, 'Twas known at least to every guest, That, tho' not bidden to parade Their scenic powers in masquerade, (A pastime little found to thrive In the bleak fog of England's skies, Where wit's the thing we best contrive, As masqueraders, to _disguise_,) It yet was hoped-and well that hope Was answered by the young and gay-- That in the toilet's task to-day Fancy should take her wildest scope;-- That the rapt milliner should be Let loose thro fields of poesy, The tailor, in inventive trance, Up to the heights of Epic clamber, And all the regions of Romance Be ransackt by the _femme de chambre_.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas-- Circa.s.sian slaves whom Love would pay Half his maternal realms to ransom;-- Young nuns, whose chief religion lay In looking most profanely handsome;-- Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With hats from the _Arcade-ian_ shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-_hunters_ formed their train.

With these and more such female groups, Were mixt no less fantastic troops Of male exhibitors--all willing To look even more than usual killing;-- Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, And brigands, charmingly ferocious:-- M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then, Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; And Friars, stanch No-Popery men, In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she--the nymph whom late We left before her gla.s.s delaying Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first gla.s.sy mirror The first fair face that lured to error.

"Where is she," ask'st thou?--watch all looks As centring to one point they bear, Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, Turned to the sun--and she is there.

Even in disguise, oh never doubt By her own light you'd track her out: As when the moon, close shawled in fog, Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven _incog_., Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night Hath our young heroine veiled her light;-- For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.

His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow Pledged in Olympus, and made known To mortals by the type which now Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, That b.u.t.terfly, mysterious trinket, Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), And sparkling thus on brow so white, Tells us we've Psyche here tonight!

But hark! some song hath caught her ears-- And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres, Her G.o.ddess-s.h.i.+p approves the air; And to a mere terrestrial strain, Inspired by naught but pink champagne, Her b.u.t.terfly as gayly nods As tho' she sate with all her train At some great Concert of the G.o.ds, With Phoebus, leader--Jove, director, And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From the male group the carol came-- A few gay youths whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame Had lured to taste the tide it poured; And one who from his youth and lyre Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire, Thus gayly sung, while, to his song, Replied in chorus the gay throng:--

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amus.e.m.e.nt sufficient for me.

Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.

So pledge me a b.u.mper--your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find.

Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!

In the mean time, a b.u.mper--your Angels, on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are _not_ Angels, why--let the flask fly-- We must be happy _all_ ways that we can.

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, Leaving but so much of its beam As gave to objects, late so blight, The coloring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loath to die-- A last link of his glory yet, Binding together earth and sky.

Say, why is it that twilight best Becomes even brows the loveliest?

That dimness with its softening Touch Can bring out grace unfelt before, And charms we ne'er can see too much, When seen but half enchant the more?

Alas, it is that every joy In fulness finds its worst alloy, And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, Is sweeter than the whole possest;-- That Beauty, when least shone upon, A creature most ideal grows; And there's no light from moon or sun Like that Imagination throws;-- It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks Even from a bright reality, And turning inly, feels and thinks For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bower, Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy--and champagne-- Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, Now brightened in the gloom to belles; And the brief interval of time, 'Twixt after dinner and before, To dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; And now along the waters fly Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, With knights and dames who, calm reclined, Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-- Astonis.h.i.+ng old Thames to find Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river, With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, That many a group in turn were seen Embarking on its wave serene; And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, A band of mariners, from the isles Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, As smooth they floated, to the play Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:--

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy, Our home is on the sea; When Nature gave The ocean-wave, She markt it for the Free.

Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark Is Freedom's ark, And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where every sh.o.r.e Is sparkling o'er With Beauty's richest smiles.

For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, For us hath Freedom claimed Those ocean-nests Where Valor rests His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, And shall the Moslem dare, While Grecian hand Can wield a brand, To plant his Crescent there?

No--by our fathers, no, boy, No, by the Cross, we show-- From Maina's rills To Thracia's hills All Greece re-echoes "No!"

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come and go again, Even so by s.n.a.t.c.hes in the wind, Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near.

At length when, lost, the closing note Had down the waters died along, Forth from another fairy boat, Freighted with music, came this song--

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, Gentle river, thy current runs, Sheltered safe from winter gales, Shaded cool from summer suns.

Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.

Fenced with flowery shelter round; No rude tempest wakes the tide, All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come, When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main.

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pa.s.s Into the world's unsheltered sea, Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;--

Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3]

Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till f.a.gged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.