The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 50 : But, whither means the muse to roam?'Tis time to call the wanderer home.Who could

But, whither means the muse to roam?

'Tis time to call the wanderer home.

Who could have thought the nymph would perch her Up in the clouds with Father Kircher?

So, health and love to all your mansion!

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in, The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, Mirth and song, your board illumine.

At all your feasts, remember too, When cups are sparkling to the brim, That here is one who drinks to you, And, oh! as warmly drink to him.

[1] We were seven days on our pa.s.sage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lily in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lily to remain in the service: so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.

[2] The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they appeared to us so near the surface that it seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is no necessity, of course, for having the lead; and the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the s.h.i.+p, takes her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors.

[3] In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven." Cosmel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidacticus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun.

LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow Of her he loves-- The swell of yonder foaming billow Resembles not the happy sigh That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, In this dark hour, Than when, in pa.s.sion's young emotion, I've stolen, beneath the evening star, To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne'er was given To pleasure's thrill; 'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep.

Well!--there are some, thou stormy bed, To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; Oh! most to him, Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey drop to shed Round sorrow's brim.

Yes--_he_ can smile serene at death: Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him.

ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

[Greek: NEA turannei]

EURPID. "_Medea_," v. 967.

Nay, tempt me not to love again, There was a time when love was sweet; Dear Nea! had I known thee then, Our souls had not been slow to meet.

But, oh, this weary heart hath run, So many a time, the rounds of pain, Not even for thee, thou lovely one, Would I endure such pangs again.

If there be climes, where never yet The print of beauty's foot was set, Where man may pa.s.s his loveless nights, Unfevered by her false delights, Thither my wounded soul would fly, Where rosy cheek or radiant eye Should bring no more their bliss, or pain, Nor fetter me to earth again.

Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light, Though little prized when all my own, Now float before me, soft and bright As when they first enamoring shone,-- What hours and days have I seen glide, While fit, enchanted, by thy side, Unmindful of the fleeting day, I've let life's dream dissolve away.

O bloom of youth profusely shed!

O moments I simply, vainly sped, Yet sweetly too--or Love perfumed The flame which thus my life consumed; And brilliant was the chain of flowers, In which he led my victim-hours.

Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder, This thoughtless soul might wish to wander,-- Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim, Endearing still, reproaching never, Till even this heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fixt than ever, No, no--on earth there's only one Could bind such faithless folly fast; And sure on earth but one alone Could make such virtue false at last!

Nea, the heart which she forsook, For thee were but a worthless shrine-- Go, lovely girl, that angel look Must thrill a soul more pure than mine.

Oh! thou shalt be all else to me, That heart can feel or tongue can feign; I'll praise, admire, and wors.h.i.+p thee, But must not, dare not, love again.

--_tale iter omne cave. _ PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg. 8_.

I pray you, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely sh.o.r.e, Where late we thoughtless strayed; 'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends To be no more than simple friends, Such lonely walks were made.

That little Bay, where turning in From ocean's rude and angry din, As lovers steal to bliss, The billows kiss the sh.o.r.e, and then Flow back into the deep again, As though they did not kiss.

Remember, o'er its circling flood In what a dangerous dream we stood-- The silent sea before us, Around us, all the gloom of grove, That ever lent its shade to love, No eye but heaven's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, In vain would formal art dissemble All we then looked and thought; 'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, 'Twas every thing that young hearts feel, By Love and Nature taught.

I stopped to cull, with faltering hand, A sh.e.l.l that, on the golden sand, Before us faintly gleamed; I trembling raised it, and when you Had kist the sh.e.l.l, I kist it too-- How sweet, how wrong it seemed!

Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, The worst that e'er the tempter's power Could tangle me or you in; Sweet Nea, let us roam no more Along that wild and lonely sh.o.r.e.

Such walks may be our ruin.

You read it in these spell-bound eyes, And there alone should love be read; You hear me say it all in sighs, And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more; I will not speak; Although my heart to anguish thrill, I'll spare the burning of your cheek, And look it all in silence still.

Heard you the wish I dared to name, To murmur on that luckless night, When pa.s.sion broke the bonds of shame, And love grew madness in your sight?

Divinely through the graceful dance, You seemed to float in silent song, Bending to earth that sunny glance, As if to light your steps along.

Oh! how could others dare to touch That hallowed form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but Love and me!

With smiling eyes, that little thought, How fatal were the beams they threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught, And round me, like a spirit, flew.

Heedless of all, but you alone,-- And _you_, at least, should not condemn.

If, when such eyes before me shone, My soul forgot all eyes but them,--

I dared to whisper pa.s.sion's vow,-- For love had even of thought bereft me,-- Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow, But, with a bound, you blus.h.i.+ng left me.

Forget, forget that night's offence, Forgive it, if, alas! you can; 'Twas love, 'twas pa.s.sion--soul and sense-- 'Twas all that's best and worst in man.