The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 137 : And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When hea

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When heaven was still the spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not.

But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of the flower, And the greeting mute Of thy boughs' salute To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree!

How the traveller blesses thee When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows.

Saying, "Come, rest thee here."

O Abyssinian tree!

Thus bow thy head to me!

THE SUMMER FeTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fete, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a n.o.ble poet,[1] whose playful and happy _jeu d'esprit_ on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fete as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

_Sloperton Cottage_,

_November 1881_

[1] Lord Francis Egerton.

THE SUMMER FeTE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days, "That once inspired the poet's lays?

"Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals-- "Summers of light, undimmed by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, As, on the morning of that Fete Which bards unborn shall celebrate, She backward drew her curtain's shade, And, closing one half-dazzled eye, Peeped with the other at the sky-- The important sky, whose light or gloom Was to decide, this day, the doom Of some few hundred beauties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now Set in with all his usual rigor!

Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how To nurse a bud, or fan a bough, But Eurus in perpetual vigor; And, such the biting summer air, That she, the nymph now nestling there-- Snug as her own bright gems recline At night within their cotton shrine-- Had more than once been caught of late Kneeling before her blazing grate, Like a young wors.h.i.+pper of fire, With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow as if to woo them nigher.

Thro' the white fingers flus.h.i.+ng came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, That now illumed this morning's heaven!

Up sprung Ianthe at the sight, Tho'--hark!--the clocks but strike eleven, And rarely did the nymph surprise Mankind so early with her eyes.

Who now will say that England's sun (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun, And must retrench his golden rays-- Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moons.h.i.+ne come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Ianthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes Already had begun to dance: For brighter sun than that which now Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, Had never bent from heaven his brow To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.

What must it be--if thus so fair.

Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square-- What must it be where Thames is seen Gliding between his banks of green, While rival villas, on each side, Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, And, like a Turk between two rows Of Harem beauties, on he goes-- A lover, loved for even the grace With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes, One, the most flowery, cool, and bright Of all by which that river roams, The Fete is to be held to-night-- That Fete already linked to fame, Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight (When looked for long, at last they came,) Seemed circled with a fairy light;-- That Fete to which the cull, the flower Of England's beauty, rank and power, From the young spinster, just come _out_, To the old Premier, too long _in_-- From legs of far descended gout, To the last new-mustachioed chin-- All were convoked by Fas.h.i.+on's spells To the small circle where she dwells, Collecting nightly, to allure us, Live atoms, which, together hurled, She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

Behold how busy in those bowers (Like May-flies in and out of flowers.) The countless menials, swarming run, To furnish forth ere set of sun The banquet-table richly laid Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade, Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice, And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, Breathe from her summer-throne of ice A spirit of coolness over all.

And now the important hour drew nigh, When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky, The west-end "world" for mirth let loose, And moved, as he of Syracuse[1]

Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force Of four horse power, had all combined Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, Leaving that portion of mankind, Whom they call "n.o.body," behind; No star for London's feasts to-day, No moon of beauty, new this May, To lend the night her crescent ray;-- Nothing, in short, for ear or eye, But veteran belles and wits gone by, The relics of a past beau-monde, A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned!

Even Parliament this evening nods Beneath the harangues of minor G.o.ds, On half its usual opiate's share; The great dispensers of repose, The first-rate furnishers of prose Being all called to--prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square-- That last impregnable redoubt, Where, guarded with Patrician care, Primeval Error still holds out-- Where never gleam of gas must dare 'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt, Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare The dowagers one single jolt;-- Where, far too stately and sublime To profit by the lights of time, Let Intellect march how it will, They stick to oil and watchman still:-- Soon as thro' that ill.u.s.trious square The first epistolary bell.

Sounding by fits upon the air, Of parting pennies rung the knell; Warned by that tell-tale of the hours, And by the day-light's westering beam, The young Ianthe, who, with flowers Half crowned, had sat in idle dream Before her gla.s.s, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodged some curl from her white brow, And now again replaced it there:-- As tho' her task was meant to be One endless change of ministry-- A routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile--what strain is that which floats Thro' the small boudoir near--like notes Of some young bird, its task repeating For the next linnet music-meeting?

A voice it was, whose gentle sounds Still kept a modest octave's bounds, Nor yet had ventured to exalt Its rash ambition to _B alt_, That point towards which when ladies rise, The wise man takes his hat and--flies.

Tones of a harp, too, gently played, Came with this youthful voice communing; Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuning-- A process which must oft have given Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleased, among the joys of Heaven, He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned."

She who now sung this gentle strain Was our young nymph's still younger sister-- Scarce ready yet for Fas.h.i.+on's train In their light legions to enlist her, But counted on, as sure to bring Her force into the field next spring.

The song she thus, like Jubal's sh.e.l.l, Gave forth "so sweetly and so well,"

Was one in Morning Post much famed, From a _divine_ collection, named, "Songs of the Toilet"--every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Some item, with full scope, to choose, From diamonds down to dancing shoes; From the last hat that Herbault's hands Bequeathed to an admiring world, Down to the latest flounce that stands Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

Speaking of one of these new Lays, The Morning Post thus sweetly says:-- "Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, "Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, "This fine Cantata upon Sleeves.

"The very notes themselves reveal "The cut of each new sleeve so well; "A _flat_ betrays the _Imbecilles_,[2]

"Light fugues the flying lappets tell; "While rich cathedral chords awake 'Our homage for the _Manches d'eveque_."