The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 65 : WEEP ON, WEEP ON.Weep on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are o'e

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;-- Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days, They'll learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruined isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate "Your web of discord wove; "And while your tyrants joined in hate, "You never joined in love.

"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, "And man profaned what G.o.d had given; "Till some were heard to curse the shrine, "Where others knelt to heaven!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises!

Oh, My Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, My Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature placed it.

Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear.

My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness-- The dress _you_ wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined, But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're designed To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes-- Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh! my Nora Creina dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina, Wit, though bright, Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light, Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er looked more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that s.h.i.+nes Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise, Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charmed all other eyes, Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or could we keep the souls we love, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!

Though many a gifted mind we meet, Though fairest forms we see, To live with them is far less sweet, Than to remember thee, Mary!

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY Sh.o.r.e.[1]

By that Lake, whose gloomy sh.o.r.e Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2]

Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young St. Kevin stole to sleep.

"Here, at least," he calmly said, "Woman ne'er shall find my bed."

Ah! the good Saint little knew What that wily s.e.x can do."

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-- Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong.

Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh; East or west, where'er he turned, Still her eyes before him burned.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now, he sleeps at last; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free, From her power, if fond she be: Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked his feet To this rocky, wild retreat; And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it, too.

Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!

Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!

Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,) Felt her love, and mourned her fate.

When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"

Round the Lake light music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

[1] This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St.

Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

[2] There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.