The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 32 : The sympathy I then betrayed, Perhaps was but the child of art, The guile of one, who l

The sympathy I then betrayed, Perhaps was but the child of art, The guile of one, who long hath played With all these wily nets of heart.

Oh! thine is not my earliest vow; Though few the years I yet have told, Canst thou believe I've lived till now, With loveless heart or senses cold?

No--other nymphs to joy and pain This wild and wandering heart hath moved; With some it sported, wild and vain, While some it dearly, truly, loved.

The cheek to thine I fondly lay, To theirs hath been as fondly laid; The words to thee I warmly say, To them have been as warmly said.

Then, scorn at once a worthless heart, Worthless alike, or fixt or free; Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And--love not me, oh love not me.

Enough--now, turn thine eyes again; What, still that look and still that sigh!

Dost thou not feel my counsel then?

Oh! no, beloved,--nor do I.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye As mortal as ever drew G.o.ds from the sky.

But I _will_ not believe them--no, Science, to you I have long bid a last and a careless adieu: Still flying from Nature to study her laws, And dulling delight by exploring its cause, You forget how superior, for mortals below, Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.

Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete, Would ask _how_ we feel it, or _why_ it is sweet; How rays are confused, or how particles fly Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh; Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it, Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?

As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love, You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, When the star of the west on his solitude s.h.i.+nes, And the magical fingers of fancy have hung Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.

Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone Can hallow his harp or enn.o.ble its tone; Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, His song to the world let him utter unseen, And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.

Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love, In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, To have you thus ever invisibly nigh, Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!

Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care, I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air, And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew, To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.

Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine, We shall hold in the air a communion divine, As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.

And oft, at those lingering moments of night, When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above.

Sweet spirit!--and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined With her being for ever my heart and my mind, Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear.

I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near; That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power, It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour; And, let fortune's realities frown as they will, Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.

THE RING[1]

A TALE

_Annulus ille viri._ OVID. _"Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15_.

The happy day at length arrived When Rupert was to wed The fairest maid in Saxony, And take her to his bed.

As soon as morn was in the sky, The feast and sports began; The men admired the happy maid, The maids the happy man.

In many a sweet device of mirth The day was past along; And some the featly dance amused, And some the dulcet song.

The younger maids with Isabel Disported through the bowers, And decked her robe, and crowned her head With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire, Within the castle walls, Sat listening to the choral strains That echoed, through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repaired Unto a s.p.a.cious court, To strike the bounding tennis-ball In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger wore The wedding-ring so bright, Which was to grace the lily hand Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem, Or lose it in the play, Hie looked around the court, to see Where he the ring might lay.

Now, in the court a statue stood, Which there full long had been; It might a Heathen G.o.ddess be, Or else, a Heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then He tried the ring to fit; And, thinking it was safest there, Thereon he fastened it.

And now the tennis sports went on, Till they were wearied all, And messengers announced to them Their dinner in the hall,

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring Unto the statue went; But, oh, how shocked was he to find The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring With firm and mighty clasp; In vain he tried and tried and tried, He could not loose the grasp!

Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind-- As well his mind might be; "I'll come," quoth he, "at night again, "When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much He thought upon his ring; And marvelled sorely what could mean So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court He hied without delay, Resolved to break the marble hand And force the ring away.

But, mark a stranger wonder still-- The ring was there no more And yet the marble hand ungrasped, And open as before!

He searched the base, and all the court, But nothing could he find; Then to the castle hied he back With sore bewildered mind.

Within he found them all in mirth, The night in dancing flew: The youth another ring procured, And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has joined their hands, The hours of love advance: Rupert almost forgets to think Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel In blus.h.i.+ng sweetness lay, Like flowers, half-opened by the dawn, And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side, In youthful beauty glows, Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both, Nor let the rest be told, If 'twere not for the horrid tale It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him A death cold carca.s.s found; He saw it not, but thought he felt Its arms embrace him round.