The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 35 : TO ......., 1801.To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power,

TO ......., 1801.

To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her prompt magic fills the mind With friends and joys we've left behind, And joys return and friends are near, And all are welcomed with a tear:-- In the mind's purest seat to dwell, To be remembered oft and well By one whose heart, though vain and wild, By pa.s.sion led, by youth beguiled, Can proudly still aspire to be All that may yet win smiles from thee:-- If thus to live in every part Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart; If thus to be its sole employ Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, Believe it. Mary,--oh! believe A tongue that never can deceive, Though, erring, it too oft betray Even more than Love should dare to say,-- In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour, In crowded hall or lonely bower, The business of my life shall be, For ever to remember thee.

And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form Of one whom Love had failed to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill, Is not less dear, is wors.h.i.+pt still-- I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, The bright, cold burden of my way.

To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its lasting tomb, And Memory, with embalming care, Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.

THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

_Ad harmoniam canere mundum_.

CICERO _"de Nat. Deor." lib. iii_.

There lies a sh.e.l.l beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed; This magic sh.e.l.l, From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wandered by the tide that laves Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears Upon its s.h.i.+ning side the mystic notes Of those entrancing airs,[1]

The genii of the deep were wont to swell, When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!

Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats; And, if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

Go, bring the bright sh.e.l.l to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear![2]

And thou shalt own, That, through the circle of creation's zone, Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams; From the pellucid tides,[3] that whirl The planets through their maze of song, To the small rill, that weeps along Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,[4]

To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields;[5]

Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.

Welcome, welcome, mystic sh.e.l.l!

Many a star has ceased to burn,[6]

Many a tear has Saturn's urn O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept.

Now blest I'll fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, who waked its early swell, The Syren of the heavenly choir.

Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre; Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of some blissful soul: While thou-- Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee!

Beneath Hispania's sun, Thou'll see a streamlet run, Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7]

And there, when night-winds down the current die, Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.

There, by that wondrous stream, Go, lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a G.o.dlike dream, As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8]

Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9]

And, looking to the orient dim, Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire.

Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour, Stole o'er his musing breast; What pious ecstasy Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest The various forms of bright divinity!

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10]

Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?

When, free From every earthly chain, From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, His spirit flew through fields above, Drank at the source of nature's fontal number, And saw, in mystic choir, around him move The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!

Such dreams, so heavenly bright, I swear By the great diadem that twines my hair, And by the seven gems that sparkle there, Mingling their beams In a soft iris of harmonious light, Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.

I found her not--the chamber seemed Like some divinely haunted place Where fairy forms had lately beamed, And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed A sigh around her, ere she fled, Which hung, as on a melting lute, When all the silver chords are mute, There lingers still a trembling breath After the note's luxurious death, A shade of song, a spirit air Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day, Had floated o'er her cheek of rose; I saw the couch, where late she lay In languor of divine repose; And I could trace the hallowed print Her limbs had left, as pure and warm, As if 'twere done in rapture's mint, And Love himself had stamped the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?

In pity fly not thus from me; Thou art my life, my essence now, And my soul dies of wanting thee.

[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious sh.e.l.ls, found at Curacoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer a.s.sures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these sh.e.l.ls were used by the syrens at their concerts.

[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord.

[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.

[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds.

[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.

[8] Orpheus.

[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams.

[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy.

TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON READING HER "PSYCHE."

Tell me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine; When piety confest the flame, And even thy errors were divine;

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair, A glory round thy temple spread?