The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 37 : Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, And let my l

Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul, Come blus.h.i.+ng to this ardent breast.

Then, while in every glance I drink The rich overflowing of her mind, Oh! let her all enamored sink In sweet abandonment resigned, Blus.h.i.+ng for all our struggles past, And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"

SONG.

Think on that look whose melting ray For one sweet moment mixt with mine, And for that moment seemed to say, "I dare not, or I would be thine!"

Think on thy every smile and glance, On all thou hast to charm and move; And then forgive my bosom's trance, Nor tell me it is sin to love.

Oh, _not_ to love thee were the sin; For sure, if Fate's decrees be done, Thou, thou art destined still to win, As I am destined to be won!

THE CATALOGUE.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclined on my breast; "Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."-- Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free; But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild She taught me the way to be blest; She taught me to love her, I loved like a child, But Kitty could fancy the rest.

This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore I have never forgot, I allow: I have had it _by rote_ very often before, But never _by heart_ until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, But my head was so full of romance That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, And I was her knight of the lance.

But Martha was not of this fanciful school, And she laughed at her poor little knight; While I thought her a G.o.ddess, she thought me a fool, And I'll swear _she_ was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, Again I was tempted to rove; But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books That she gave me more logic than love.

So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly To those sweeter logicians in bliss, Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me, But Susan was piously given; And the worst of it was, we could never agree On the road that was shortest to Heaven.

"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth, "What's devotion to thee or to me?

"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, "And believe that that heaven's in _thee_!"

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

TO HIMSELF.

_Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire_, etc.

Cease the sighing fool to play; Cease to trifle life away; Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown.

What hours, Catullus, once were thine.

How fairly seemed thy day to s.h.i.+ne, When lightly thou didst fly to meet The girl whose smile was then so sweet-- The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

Ye met--your souls seemed all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

Such were the hours that once were thine; But, ah! those hours no longer s.h.i.+ne.

For now the nymph delights no more In what she loved so much before; And all Catullus now can do, Is to be proud and frigid too;

Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies.

False maid! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery; The heyday of his heart is o'er, Nor will he court one favor more.

Fly, perjured girl!--but whither fly?

Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?

Who now will drink the syren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own?

Oh, none:--and he who loved before Can never, never love thee more.

_"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more_!"

--ST. JOHN, chap. viii.

Oh woman, if through sinful wile Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track, 'Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back.

The stain that on thy virtue lies, Washed by those tears, not long will stay; As clouds that sully morning skies May all be wept in showers away.

Go, go, be innocent,--and live; The tongues of men may wound thee sore; But Heaven in pity can forgive, And bids thee "go, and sin no more!"

NONSENSE.

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding sh.o.r.e, If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green:-- If you have seen all this, and more, G.o.d bless me, what a deal you've seen!

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.