The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 60 : THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that v

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2]

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it _was_ not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

[1] "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

[2] The rivers Avon and Avoca.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still; Some hand, more calm and sage, The leaf must fill.

Thoughts come, as pure as light Pure as even _you_ require: But, oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book: Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you.

Like you, 'tis fair and bright; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild pa.s.sion write One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam.

Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home; Fancy may trace some line, Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but s.h.i.+ne, Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean, far, Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Thro' the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell thro' what storms I stray-- _You_ still the unseen light, Guiding my way.

THE LEGACY.

When in death I shall calmly recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here.

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call.[1]

Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in pa.s.sing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song.

Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty has seldom blest.

But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.

[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."--_O'Halloran_.

HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Banshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by Love!

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth; Long may the fair and brave Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days![1]

Star after star decays, Every bright name, that shed Light o'er the land, is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth; But brightly flows the tear, Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quenched are our beacon lights-- Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2]

Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung!

Both mute,--but long as valor s.h.i.+neth, Or Mercy's soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin's pride Tell how they lived and died.

[1] I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

[2] This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the t.i.tle given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy gra.s.s-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories."