WiC MNLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA ere A ReRemryenet ons oeheeeriee tee FROM THE LIBRARY OF JAMES FONTAINE MINOR GIVEN BY MR. AND MRS. GEORGE MADISON MAVERICK eeeeee ann rrr Te eta ewes ae gunne® err eres hs ? fs t | t 4 : a . S persi S ‘Drea (ies iw rg AR iuphactred) me ert Ch id ka bake eee Rh Ek lel Dod bile ll eh sheet Deer enero: renrraas vara Sy ers er rte rt eryrers Serer Tes dial Caan Ot cas Pere eres a : p 4 cl a i 3 a 5 4 ? a 3 : i A A i : cf 3) 4 o i 4 i een ee eri fale ho ra a cagenataneantaucesekoan a F dol tone een pai Pi Gkaneoaioncreny cd i a “rrr ee or eats Sy ra re riety on Pe Ercer ns rrr erry Sem rrr rrr Oe en ener tits $ s 5 i i: bo : ' t FS F Fi F cf é Bi rr! eerrrerrrer try fret tea rere nr a rt eee ert Correo eeprrerers ty cheer ptt aware eenae ee ira 4 Pa Poh eywe wel ce parent ren res oS tereaee eas erent pret rere tetra Lats aie eis CaP eee Seen reer nt rms yr rerun ene o oe jeady OM et wie et eae ett ri ih Sor porte " ee ete eee et tl ft ah ays ee Scie ry 3 fs : : i 4 7 Pd 4 t 2 * ‘ i 7 ns ry a in 2 a . 3 Te ete EEF Tt ith nay ER a ge ee eee Ts y r ht Pere enttSarees bi i $o: Fy : i Pe : ; i POEMS THOMAS MOORE. as a Seeded Peer eee owners derceyerreserertr iret bh i eta tlAkkits Ps oe coined Peat ae on Wield el lll bal hk et errata eteerert tt ri Saati a lesnece cars Crtaso errr tis nf 94 vt eee il bibs rr reer eee ne ro Fa cad = : 7 on mem es ore pre eres i « fiebeeaniees oo EM ee ee Ser ete ret ved eon Pat eR nae aa Pasko ed ba Pa tee PAR es ene wen ivenaaepanonens ijn Nideved tee Sere re a Teepe abtortirteiriad et Lent At ie prdseP-iit Ls 1 wh H aarka are Sectetinetede nick ete tartans corde satn es paihed ere 7 fh ,Sas era a ans Mette ak ak ok, Ps aparece De ok ier ete as Dee el tit eae To ea hoes prehp te badase La ad anda os hes ed ea ee el ae senimoenasendce.: Breeton — saw rrr hacbeiashsien 4 beh a eee we oie pear Be Stal bere periictate t : a HH Bt . Kx 2d HG ahs oe tenes reer. ‘ow iy Ciniboacs iv ery shim pe ssa ie eer Reh ee Deteatetnt rok eee ie iat Sit See ed ala ad bette eae let Nihueaieten: CO/ J Yi, (ue TGS Ligh CO Y0771A ( Doe Li painted eet peers aati ot) a Beceate) De bahe psenaees ar ms emer eeeEdinburgh: dilltam YQ. umm.a iid een inte daietep beh hrs ih iebarocdrte Rein rie ie: Pits edlet a pia rere T ee ener tee Pir Tia cta tenet at he bits repre erry rent erecta. Prabal ta aie fc oh ba ea oti be eee Pe he ee er pepe peeceene S ia had % sa rd Cer itanawabash ie a0 uy i Pen tale Py : eres Seer gon raaken Corer ea Abas pana Push paabaie Ale Prt oe 2 Ce eure ae tier Sone ee é ad anaes eee es oes ere bok i” ~ mae a a erie pire irene Mid oie 24) ieee bbby re eben Macht piedirseink plied beter ore ieee feiteteteeends we Pim Hei iy Ged iMAL h \ 8 § S \ 77 UOT} TULL U UO OO ‘aad ‘|,£ PET ieRR bear lela begow 5 2 - ee aren aie ed Lr eee ry Pee ant Sie ee err eee ere erent erry of a ag e sare Cdk rere rn ete eee eee os ea bala Sear aie eer fare teria ~ ~ eeat Sade eee st Peete eer tre ele FT ML Seb Lib eS blend tcl pb eee eee et wid ” aa ou siTHE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS MOORE. EDINBURGH: WILLIAM BE. NIMMO:eer nere eerie ery Seria = Lb Otel Trt ice eee) piers ie pera vere etree tees Se re rt hal eterna etna ee oe prbrebtrtnned eer poops CMRP hel vies: esate atten! een peters tats ps ea et pest haha bassin Ahdtabnoh pet aed a Peli siis ds ie Sete G i a : Ei C3 i + ee nury os at Creede pai tise Ot ead Cleecin tad eertinteateesteel Shit Saul Couccuet Son Bed Lend ba cos lide Serle ne eT Peete oh ee air yeni par Silane teeta Sees errs aren bitin eee ee Ps oa yy Pe sence pore teesMEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. WERE we asked to characterise Tom Moore in a monumental line after the manner of Tom Hood’s epitaph, we should write, “He sang ‘The Irish Melodies.’” And these really indicate far more truly the poetical excellence and idiosynerasy of Moore than “The Song of the Shirt” reveals the many-sided genius of Hood. In “The Irish Melo- dies,” we find displayed all the elements that have made Moore’s poetry admired—graceful fancy, pretty sentiment, musical cadence, and happily-turned phrase; in “The Song of the Shirt,” we have only the pathetic side of Hood’s nature, none of that play of wit and humour and punning comicality which were as much parts of the man as his other mood of tears. Thomas Moore was a native of the Irish metropolis, being born in Aungier Street, on the 28th May 1779. His father was a respect- able grocer and spirit-dealer in Dublin, and both his parents were Roman Catholics; a religious body at that time subjected to many civic disabilities, the general public opinion sanctioning the legal enactments against them. Young Moore was educated in the faith of his fathers, and the harsh treatment of its adherents at the latter end of the last century no doubt accounts to a large extent for his early revolutionary fervour, and for his later sort of kid-glove sym- pathy with rebellion. The talent of rhyming early exhibited itself in Moore. How soon the poet began to manufacture verses he himself cannot remember; but at the age of fourteen he had con- tributed to a Dublin magazine called the Anthologia Hibernica. Indeed of him, as of Pope, it might be said, ** As yet a child, and all unknown to fame, He lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.” This taste for verse was no doubt stimulated by the training he received at the school of Mr Samuel Whyte, (who, before Moore’s day, had birched the dramatist Richard Brinsley Sheridan as the most incorrigible of dunces,) who had a great taste for the drama, and encouraged a similar taste in his pupils by private theatricals. Tom Moore soon became one of his “show scholars” in this line,Biertar rater ettoe reeaerenes ere eet er bebe ae ore > en > i ptr Baits ra! tret ee per pout Srsenet ence _— ee ect teny Sazvletelenst setrewee cd ieirariwhrien eh Saree tetcte falh ef cs eed psnicuriein bree wees Sn wire tt ees oe Sel edie Dl Vi MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. and frequently played at Lady Borrowe’s private theatre in Dublin. In 1790, while as yet he was only eleven years of age, “ An Epilogue, A Squeeze at St Paal’s, by Master Moore,” formed a portion of the evening entertainment at her Ladyship’s. The boyish sympathies of Moore were enlisted in favour of the French Revolution by his par- ents, who, labouring under pains and penalties as Roman Catholics, had a better reason for their republican proclivities than our own English poets, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, who lived long enough to be ashamed of ever having regarded that frightful Satur- nalia of cruelty and murder as the herald of freedom to oppressed peoples all over the world. Moore was taken by his father to the banquet got up by rash and disloyal Irishmen in honour of the barricaders of Paris; and at one of these, in 1792, he sat on the chair- man’s knee while enthusiastic cheers greeted the toast, “ May the breezes from France fan our Irish oak into verdure!” Young Moore, thus initiated into rebellion, became intimate with its most active promoters—the misguided but honest Emmetts, Arthur O’Connor, and others. He was a member of their debating clubs, and a con- tributor to the newspaper called the Press, which was the recog- nised organ of the United Irishmen. One of his letters in that paper, of a very fiery character, was taken notice of in Parliament; and there is strong reason to believe that if Moore had not been warned by his mother, who was a person of excellent sense and judgment, to break the connexion existing between him and the “patriots,” he would have shared their fate. As it was he did not escape suspicion of being concerned in their serious conspiracies; but, on examination before the Vice-Chancellor, it was found that he was not really implicated in any plot. In 1793 an act of Parliament opened up Dublin University, hitherto an exclusively Protestant institution, to Roman Catholic students, who, however, were not permitted to share in the honours and emoluments of the University. Moore was entered at Trinity College in 1794, and there pursued his studies with diligence and success. And while engaged with his classics at the university, at home he was learning Italian from a priest, French from one of the many emigrants who sought refuge on our shores during that un- happy time for their own country, and pianoforte music from hig sister's teacher. About 1796, he wrote a masque with songs, which was performed in his father’s small drawing-room, im presence of a few friends, and some of the songs were received with much ap- plause. He was also at this period a leading member of a kind of SEIU TEI asMEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. Vil poetical court, that on certain seasons held high festive days ona little island in the Bay of Dublin. In 1799 Moore, having taken his degree of B.A., and carrying with him a translation of Anacreon’s Odes, for-which he had hoped to gain a prize at his college, but was disappointed, started for Lon- don to enter himself as a student of the Middle Temple. He was not flush of cash, and the few guineas he had with him were sewed up in the waistband of his breeches by his careful mother, along with a bit of cloth blessed by the priest, as an additional safeguard against theft, we presume. More lucky than many of his brother poets who have sought that mighty city with nothing but their brains for a fortune, Moore, though so scantily supplied with capital, never ran any risk of being in want. He had a kind friend in Lord Moira, who obtained for him permission to dedicate his Odes to the Prince of Wales, and a profitable subscription was raised, chiefly among the nobility, for their publication. In after years, Moore was unsparing in his satire of “the fat Adonis of Fifty,” When the charge of ingratitude was hurled against him for thus assailing one who had benefited him in earlier days, the poet re- plied—“ These favours and benefits are very easily summed up: I was allowed to dedicate ‘Anacreon’ to his Royal Highness; I twice dined at Carlton House; and I made one of the fifteen hundred envied guests at the Prince’s grand fete in 1815!” Moore’s success with Anacreon was fatal to his law studies. Coke upon Lyttleton, and Blackstone’s Commentaries were thrown aside that he might have more time for the wooing of the Muses. In 1801, about a year after the Odes had been published, appeared a volume of original verse by Moore, purporting to be “The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little,” a cognomen the poet adopted in allusion to his stature, which was unusually diminutive, Sir Walter Scott describing him as the smallest of men not to be deformed. These poems were of a loose and immoral nature; but the age was not particularly fastidious, and though many blamed, yet Moore found friends ready to overlook their want of decency in considera- tion of their poetical ability. He himself, however, in his later days, remembered these productions with feelings of shame. In 1803 he ob- tained an appointment under Government, as Registrar to the Court of Admiralty at Bermuda, and arrived at his post in the beginning of the following year. A couple of months were sufficient to shew that the place was not suitable for him, and he left, having ap- pointed a deputy to do his work. Moore then travelled over ahere HTL rire pale peer erinrg uk Ceara) Peeentarteeer TH eer ee ee ed Pia eb ede sg eed Ls eee : enyeney eres die Sr ba ets ot Lpaaba ba aapsaoend 495 Ee Furs tacaeee et Peer tense ene alidintiepe het viel a ma ae Or eabanall Sa Salesian tale ees erent e ibtahebas-senkimabdink iatoncekedaas us ipl toda pea arts iapenneRRAaTEAMAEE piew wap ha etiedeart eon a Oe ee er -_— oer ipithissbiadb it absadeaecs hah Lae Oe eT een Pilets Hire hriey. ee ree eaukd yapatitel haat Core ey cae i at Alkan deeb ated ns emesh Gas pe halls icicle 4 iS viii MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. part of America, and, notwithstanding his early republican sym pathies, he was far from satisfied with the state of society in that country, and recorded his sentiments in a series of poetical satires, which were then, and since have been, much condemned as ungene- rous and ill-natured, and as shewing a great want of acuteness in observation. It is said, indeed, in a work which within the last week or two has been issued from the press—“ The Life and Letters of Washington Irving” —that Moore expressed himself to Irving “in the fullest and strongest manner on the subject of his writings on America, which he pronounced the greatest sin of his early life.’ (It is curious, if he said so, that he did not expunge the offensive pieces from the later editions of his works.) But looking at these poems in the light of recent events—in the light of that deplorable and horrible war which is now raging with so much ferocity between men and states that were, not long ago, members of the same great Repub- lican Confederacy—we feel bound to say that, instead of a slanderer, Moore has proved himself to be a prophet. What could be more prescient then, more true of America now, than these lines /— ‘‘ While yet upon Columbia’s rising brow The showy smile of young Presumption plays, Her bloom is poison’d, and her heart decays ! Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death ; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She’s old in youth—she’s blasted in her prime!” In 1806 Moore published “Odes and Epistles,” which were treated with unmeasured severity by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Re- view. Moore took mortal offence—nothing but blood could wash out the crime of the editor of the “blue and buff.” Moore chal- lenged, and Jeffrey felt bound to give him satisfaction. Chalk Farm, near Hampstead, was the place appointed for the duel, which ended in a most ludicrous fashion, no bullets having been present in the pistols. Both combatants, though ignorant of the innocuousness of their weapons, were delighted with the result, and remained sworn friends for ever after. Byron, in his “ English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” does not fail to take advantage of the incident in the paragraph commencing— “¢ Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his life To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in his future wars, Since authors sometimes seck the field of Mars!MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE, 1xs Can none remember that eventful day, That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray, When Little’s leadless pistol met. his eye And Bow-Street myrmidons stood laughing by ?” This sneering reference to his bloodless duel, made chiefly with a view to annoy Jeffrey, enraged the fiery Moore, who now sought to transfer the vengeance Fate, in the shape of kind friends, had pre- vented him from w reaking on the editor of the Ldinburgh, to Byron. Fortunately for both, the letter demanding apology or satisfaction did not reach the vagrant “Childe” until:months after date, when passion had been supplanted by reason, and explanations and a dinner were accepted by both as excellent substitutes for pistols and coffee. The intimacy thus commenced ripened into a firm friend- ship, on the part. of Moore at least, who entertained the warmest affection for Byron, the latter reciprocating as far as he was capable. Indeed, his Lordship states, that he never felt the emotion of friend- ship towards any except Lord Clare, “and, perhaps, little Moore,” though he does not appear to have been quite able to divest himself of the notion that some of Moore’s regard depended upon his rank and title. At all events, he more than once repeats that “little Tommy dearly loves a‘lord,” a weakness which Moore neither could nor cared to overcome, There is, perhaps, no other case on record of two life-long intimacies originating in challenges to fight a duel. Moore was now a constant guest at the tables of the aristocracy, where his genial manner, social accomplishments, arfd genteel satire, made him much admired, especially at Lansdowne and Holland Houses, and at his early friend’s, Lord Moira of Donnington Park, with whom, indeed, he principally resided. Before Moore had left Ireland at all, he had cherished the notion of writing words for the beautiful music of his native land, and already had made verses suitable to various,airs, which he sung with effect in the houses where he was entertained. About 1807 he entered into an arrangement with Mr Power, a musical publisher, to furnish the words for a collection of these national melodies, Sir J. Steven- son supplying the accompaniments. Moore himself provided many of the airs, and all the changes in the melody were the poet’s own invention. These “Melodies” are undoubtedly the keystone of the author’s fame. None of his longer poenis exhibit so much of ex- cellence with so little of that which can be cavilled at by critics. They are remarkable for their felicitous expression, their sweet musical flow, and tender feeling, while flashes of genial wit and UCI RERR MERE EE. zs Prt ae ges Py Paes BS | om oe g $ IP fem on rig kere ear an NA, Sex Rafe a Py lh ~~ ee Pee Re rrr ere carers wenn 2Kee MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE, humour add to their attractiveness and force. But they are not na~ tional songs as the songs of Burns are national. When Burns strikes the lyre, the feelings of the national-beart gush forth as the water from the rock smitten by the rod of Moses, , ‘The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls” is altogether too cosmopolitan in LS phonies to awaken such passionate outbursts as “Scots wha hae.” The wit and humour too of Moore’s “Melodies” are the wit and humour of a polished citizen of the world. There is not that naiveté in the one and rollicking abandon in the other which char- acterise the genuine Irish articles. Still, with the exception of the songs of Burns and-Béranger, there, are no songs that exhibit the true lyrical faculty more than those of Moore, or which are more deservedly popular; and none translate more pleasantly feel- ings of love, patriotism, festivity, and war. What Moore accom- — plished in these “ Melodies” is well summed up in the song, “ Dear Harp of my Country !”— : ~ Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chains of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! = The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, / That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still! ‘Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twins ! Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine! Ifthe pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, j 5 Has throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone;.- : I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own!” The publication of the ‘‘ Melodies” was not completed until 1834; “National Airs,” “Sacred Songs,” “ Legendary Ballads,” &¢., bemg also added to them during that time. In 1808 and 1809 He published anonymously three poems, “ Tn-— tolerance,” “ Corruption,” and “‘ The Sceptic;” but they were con- signed almost at once to the oblivion which was really their desert. In 1811 Moore married a Miss Bessy Dykes, a young Irish actress, who proved a sensible, loving, and most devoted wife, to whom he remained fondly attached throughout life; and never did the domestic hearth of a literary man exhibit a more perfect picture of household. S MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. x] comfort. ~ Up to his marriage Moore had been more or less depend. ent on the kindness of Lord Moira, with whom he mostly resided, but having taken a wife, he had of course to take a house of his own also; and literature as a profession being now a necessity of his posi- tion, he determined to settle down in the countr y for quiet. Keg- worth in Leicestershire was the. place chosen; but in the course of the same year he removed to Mayfield Goltane: near Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, in the vicinity of the country seat of Lord Moira, whose library was placed at his disposal. During this year Moore produced an operatic piece called the “M.P.; or, The Blue-Stocking;” but a few nights on the stage were sufficient to exhaust its interest; and it has not been revived. In 1812 Moore determined to write an Eastern romance. He had had no personal experience in the East, he had not even made up his mind as to the subject about which he was to weave melodious verse; yet the Messrs Longmans, on the representation of Mr Perry of the Morning Chronicle, then in its “ glorious prime,” running well- nigh neck and neck with the Times, agreed to pay him three thousand guineas for such a work, to take it for better for worse, at whatever time suited the author's conyenience, and without any power to suggest changes or alterations: It was certainly a strange unbusi- ness-like bargain on the part of the publishers, but it nevertheless tupned out a very profitable one. The negotiation was concluded in 1814: Moore immediately set about producing his book, and read up all the works he could lay his hands on treating of the man- ners and customs, arts and sciences, geography, natural history, and climate of the East, with a view.to accuracy in the accessaries of the story. And so carefully did he “coach” ‘himself in this kind of knowledge, that a distinguished traveller observed, if the author of “Lalla Rookh” had never seen the lands he described, a person might learn as much of those countries from books as by riding on the | back of a camel. In three years the poet had produced “ Lalla Rookh,” which proved an immense success, seven editions being ealled for in the first year. The poem was well calculated to take the reading public of that time by storm. Panoramic verse was then of much higher account than that revealing “the light that never was on sea or land.’> It was before the reign of the unhappy Spasmodists; Wordsworth even was as yet but little appreciated; men loved the objective and sentimental greatly more than the re- flective and imaginative—the body more than the soul of poetry, and “Lalla Rookh” suited the condition of feeling. The verse is oe i oe ee ee ee ge | pet eT esi atin Puan jullie als ects pap al eked het a atatat allie od adihanaia i jot bah hbk aadrh yah beh eae Pete MAL a MLSE ot he. oh tp ‘ Spetcb-asenaetiae Valera ueiteniat adibnanenata seiaithetchabeeaed nepebitigh tered ate. eee ni Ds oe tN Pe ty Banoo, I beat ieee let pet BEE TOT EET erecta otany ‘Te ors Sie MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE, flowing and easy, harmonious in all its variations; its similies are rich and profuse, its imagery dazzling and gorgeous; passages of the tenderest pathos, and graphic pictures of heroic action are com- mon, and pervading all there is that languorous, sensuous beauty. which belongs only to the Hast. But with all its merits, a careful reader can scarcely help feeling that the real spirit of the Hast is well-nigh crushed out by the ornate external decoration. While contemplating his Eastern romance in verse, Moore was nob idle, but in 1813 dashed off a political satire against the Prince Regent and his Ministers, called the “The Twopenny Post-Bag; or, ‘Intercepted Letters,” which so hit the public taste, that thirteen or fourteen editions went through the press in a twelvemonth. Many other light satirical effusions found their way to the public through the columns of the Times or the Morning Chronicle, and these newspaper squibs are said to have yielded their author as much as £400 or £500 a year. Moore about this time was also writing articles for the Edinburgh Review. In 1818 he ae. companied the poet Rogers to the French capital, and there he ob- tained materials for “The Fudge Family in Paris,’ a satire from which he realised £350 in a fortnight, the work having in that time gone through five editions. His joy in successful authorship, how- ever, had been marred by the death of one of his children in 18173 and in 1818 his deputy made off with the proceeds of a ship and cargo deposited in his hands, leaving Moore responsible for £6000. Many offered him pecuniary assistance, but he declined its accept: ance, preferring, like Sir Walter Scott at a later period, to pay — off the debt by the labours of his pen. Meanwhile, to escape an attachment issued against his person by the Admiralty Court, he went to Paris in September 1819, and shortly afterwards ac. — companied Lord John Russell'to Italy. “ Rhymes on the Road,” embodying the poet's impressions of the scenery he passed through, &e., were the result of this journey. In Paris the gaiety of the _ place prevented Moore working so hard as he had anticipated to | clear off the debt; “but the claims were ultimately reduced to a- thousand guineas, of which the defaulter’s uncle paid £300, and Lord Lansdowne gave a cheque for the zest, which Moore after- wards repaid from the amount he received for “ The Loves of. the Angels,” published in 1823. On the settlement of this unplea- sant affair in which his deputy had involved him, Moore returned to England, and took up “his residence in Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, within easy distance of the seat of his patron Lord Lans- Shot ot Wy,downe: The “Fables of the Holy Alliance” were published in 1823 : in the following year the “Memoirs of Captain Rock” appeared ; and in 1825 the biography of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, which is a work on the whole of considerable merit, but more overlaid with ornament and embellished with poetry than a historical me- moir ought to be. In this year Moore visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford; and along with him and Lockhart went to the Edinburgh theatre, where it is related, a man in the pit, recognis- ing them, eried out, “Eh! eh! yon’s Sir Walter wi? Lockhart and his wife; and wha’s the wee body wi’ the pawky een? wow, but its Tam Moore, just.” Moore acknowledged the recognition by rising and bowing to the audience. In 1827 “The Epicurean,” a prose Eastern tale, was published, containing many passages of striking description, and displaying great learning in Eastern matters. This also was a very profitable venture. In 1830 Moore published “The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with Notices of his Life,” which is by far the most valuable of his prose works. _ It is one of the most interesting biographies in the language, and it is written with singular tact, judgment, and ability. For this work, in two volumes, Moore received the sum of four thousand guineas from Murray, who also supplied a considerable portion of the material. About the year 1820, Byron intrusted to Moore an autobiography, embracing all the principal events of his life up to that date, Moore being authorised to publish it after the noble Lord’s death. Moore, pressed for cash, sold it to Murray for two thousand guineas ; when Byron died, his friends, afraid of disclosures that might be made in the memoirs, urged Moore to redeem and destroy it. In an evil mo- ment he consented, and arranged with Murray to refund with in- terest the money he had received, and-committed the work to the flames. This undoubted injustice to the memory of his departed friend, Moore did his best to atone for by afterwards writing Byron’s biography, as noted above. a In 1831 he published “A Summer Fete,” a poetical piece, and in the same year the “ Memoir of Lord Edward Fitzgerald ;” in 1833 > “Travels of an Irishman in Search of a Religion,” and, two years. afterwards, a History of Jreland. In 1841 he commenced a collec- tion of his poetiéal. works, which extended to ten volumes. That disease which had @iakened the last days of Swift, of Southey, and of Scott, was now hovering over him, and three years before his death, which took place at Sloperton Cottage in February 1852, had settled fairly down upon his brain, leaving him from that time until his MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE, xiii (oaelogaglas ht 1 re he tok Aen te ‘ eon ttre vibe seein tntadeToetaeete te fac foetal het at et St 2 A OO LIN Nt Bly ga Pil We nde ay PP A a Pals 4 ig pa be einen > eet at al a tas at AA PY aaa a abil tae a onthe gue tte a ee baie regen ot ahek aagene le heb~s oe parte sret et = eet arex xiv ~ ‘MEMOIR OF THOMAS MOORE. . decease, in a state of hopeless mental infirmity, through which his wife tended him with the most anxious and considerate care. His three children had gone before him, one not without having caused him much painful anxiety and sorrow; and for the benefit of his widow he left his “Memoirs, J ournals, and Correspondence,” which, edited by Lord John Russell in a very slovenly way, produced £3000. In 1835 Moore had received a Government pension of ° _ £300; a further pension of £100 was allowed to his wife two years before his death. ors Our opinion of Moore’s poetical talent has been already indicated. In all the domestic relations his character stood deservedly high. He was an affectionate son, a good husband, a loving father, and a warm friend. His social accomplishments were of the rarest order, but his vanity was as exacting. Though loving a lord, he’preserved his independence and personal respect ; and though lacking the martyr zeal/of the great patriots who have struck off the fetters wherewith their countrymen were bound, he never sacrificed for place or emolument his political opinions. Epmneureu, Sept. 25, 1862.CONTENTS, PACE Peete ME AROO ES 555 ch cage ssn ine cakcinos onciebstienrs a Vays cetaa sessdar erties ue The Veiled Prophet of Khor ASST, +eseeesees Vilicleaao hero aibcedl a G MECH ESC) OTIC PLO. E OPE, ci Gadisec ans ipa se bdac basa de ost tccdacvuense? cavtuta tas 60 The Fire-Worshippers,....... Fists in tot APRs aoe ois 17 The Light of thé Haram,........ dastvaauetues as bea Vketbh sn does eee pene ssi £0 DWRIE GN piace ca ces da cian POhoy ce cosivavs (ad jeasvu ces SeTih ars eeeN biesessvs san 4e0 MisceLLANEOUS PoEMsS :— To a Boy with a Watch— Is it not sweet?” .ccsccecssscecescseeseres 155 Fragment of wuces Exercises—‘* Mark those ond Sas vice LOG Ts there 10 calls is accesses 156 Song—‘“‘ Mary: A beeved GROG FENG.” tox. fits ieasc5«t8v ge cibncas ett 157 » On the Birthday of Mrs ** Of all my happiest,”........ 157 To a Lady, with MS. Poems— ‘* Wher. casting many,” ............. 158 To the Large and Beautiful Miss —— ‘‘In wedlock,”.........000... 159- Inconstancy—‘‘* And do I then wonder that Julia,” ..........0...04. 159 To dana— “Though fate, my pirk,s.::0....62sidaxthivsnes nigel’ 160 Nature’s Labels—‘‘ In vain we fondly strive to trace,”. ............ 160 To M ‘Sweet Lady! look not thus again,” ..........ccccce senses 162 To Julia—* Mock me no more with love’s beguiling,”.............. 162 To Rosa—** Does the harp of Rosa slumber,” ...........scesseesssavees 162 Sympathy, to Julia—‘‘ Our hearts, my love,” oo... cc... seecceuee eee 163 To Julia —‘‘ I saw the peasant’s hand unkind,”’..........c..ceeceosss 163 On the death of a Lady—‘‘ Sweet spirit, if thy airy sleep,”....... 164 Written in a Lady’s Common-place Book—‘‘ Here is one,”....... 164 To Rosa—‘‘ Like who trusts to summer:skies,”............05 wee oes 164 3 “The wisest soul by anguish torn,” .....c....cesccecevseven 165 Anacreontic—“‘ Press the grape, and let it pour,”........ subs sqatveet 165 Be ‘¢ Friend of my soul! this goblet,” .....éscccesesecees 166 ‘woman Paik DystMple Wile,” «. .6.sesessvcessssnansdvereyeopaneds gheesi 166 T'o Miss ——, on her asking, &c,.—‘*‘I’Il ask. the sylph,”.......... 167 Elegiac Stanzas—“‘ How sweetly could I lay my head,”............ 167 To Julia—‘* When time was-entwining,” .....cccccceovessessacsecsevees LOT ¢SE9t FET Ree OS Pah SSPE ETE. aad Pp rt pinot ty eh Mesrhee MP dite mi gators iat oath barb Ff ge vere irate aaah aetincett ea rast PNT RR th songinte? foe nah adn ered Pia oe ae Su ydee vi Me isgennamnmnonnenunnanls A aaa Xvl CONTENTS. MiscELLANEOUS PoEms—(continued.) PAGE Mo Rosa—* And ate you then a thing.of art,”.........+.06 sees 168 The Surprise—‘‘ Chloris, I swear by all Lever SWOre,” «... Song—‘“‘ Why does azure, Cie lS GAG SIV cfc xe se cee rt sa pesos 185 Morality —“t Though long at school,” ........sseceseeeseererceeeteee 186 The Natal Genius: A Dream—‘ In w ALCL a LOE 188 The Tell-Tale Lyre—‘ I’ve heard there was,” ..........-+3 BeOS See 189 Mo Cara, after absence—“‘ Concealed within,” .........0.....:.ee 190 “,, on New Year’s Day—‘* When midnight,” bates POR IIs ies ™o the Invisible Girl—‘‘ They try to pers mde, MNO se ps ae caters 192 Peace and Glory—‘* Where is now the smile?” ............. cee 103 To <6 be the theme Of Cvery HOUR,” 4.5 ..rs cust nese 194->" Song—* Take back the sigh*thy. dips Ol art; 2 ok wise a aes 195 The Genius of Harmony, an Ode—‘‘ There lies a = 1D ee 195 Fea The ring. ‘To ‘No, Lady! keep the ring,”’........-...2..00s 198 ee EO «¢When I loved you, I can’t-but allow,” ....0.6...... 199 \ From the Greek of Meleager—“ Fill high the Pape tage eee ne 199 “J found her not—the chamber SOCIO 8.4 Sicnceeaats SENSE eae 200 “Tove and Reason—‘‘’Lwas in the summer-time,” ...../............ 200 *“Nay, do not weep, my Panny dear!” ...::.,.-meWgtee sens 00 202 Aspasia—‘‘ T'was in the fair Aspasia’s bower,” ....+--s.sseeesee0s 202 _ Phe Grecian Girl’s Dream of the Blessed Islands, .................. 208 %o Cloe, imitated from Martial—*‘1 could resign,” ............... 205: sowie EIR SCONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS PoEMS~—(continued.) PAGE The Wreath and the Chain—‘‘T bring thee, love,” ............... 205 To ——— “ And hast thou mark’d the pensive shade,”............ 206 pons-—**'Phe wreath you WOve,” .....-cccccessevestescceceses 1 Pines 207 +h Lying—‘‘T do confess, in many a sigh,” ......4....... auedseteeceer ats 207 i Anacreontic—‘‘ J fill’d to thee, to thee I drank,” ..... A okt aes 208 ft To ———’s Picture—‘‘ Go, then, if she whose shade,” ............ 209 ait Fragment of Mythological Hymn—‘“‘ Blest infant,” ............ s@ 209 ae To the Duke of Montpensier—‘‘ To catch the thought,” ......... 210 iit The Philosopher Aristippus. To a lamp—‘‘ O love,” ............ 211 q To Mrs Bl—h—d, written in her Album—‘‘ They say,”............ 213 The Fall of Hebe—‘“'Twas on a day,” .:sececcceseeeace Sane eee 215 Anacreontic—‘‘ She never look’d so kind before,” ....... Vote ate hS To Mrs ——— ‘‘Ts not thy mind a gentle mind,” .......0........ vo ALD Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi—‘‘ Oh! lost for ever,” ...........000 220 To Miss Beckford, on her singing—‘‘I more than once,” ......... 221 34 To Mrs Henry Tighe—‘“‘ Tell me the witching tale,” ........... Seen or Impromptu, upon leaving some Friends—‘‘ No, never,” ......... 223 dis A Warnine—‘‘ Oh! fair as heaven, and chaste,” ............ siioce age ie Woman—‘‘ Away, away—you’re all the same,” “........... wasevedes Dark i To.——— ‘‘ Come, take the harp—'tis vain-to muse,” .......00e0. 225 $i A Vision of Philosophy—*‘ "Iwas on the Red Sea,” ............5 «« 225 f To -——__—. ** The world had just begun to steal,” .27...scc.ssccsacce . a2 if To Mrs ——— ‘“‘ To see thee every day that came,” ........ se eae 228 a To Lady. H——,, on an old Ring—‘‘ When Gr aay oe ee 228 ~ ; H To ——— ‘‘ Never mind how the pedagogue DEORES ese eave ae 230 HE Did not—‘‘ T'was a new feeling—something more,” ........ feueeee OU + At Night—‘ At night, when all is still around,”....:......... Saaees 231 iq - Yo Lord Viscount Strangford—‘‘ Sweet Moon,” ..........cceececeeee 231 aes Stanzas—‘‘ A beam of tranquillity smiled,” ...,........ Che nktois eeheOe i To the Flying Fish—‘* When I have seen,” ...../....... ketenes cpr 23: 7 To Miss Moore—“‘In days, my Kate, when life,” ....... es 235 i The Lake of the Dismal Swamp—‘‘ They made her,”............... 238 i T'o the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal,” .....2.....csccee0e ee ererae i To George Morgan, Esq.—‘‘Oh what a tempest,” ........ Seseice ee 242 te Lines written in a storm at Sea—‘‘ Oh! there’s a holy,” ./..4.. 244 if OpxEs To NEA :— : aE eas I. ‘*Nay, tempt me not to love again,” .......csscssccdsessecseees D4 He It. “ You read it in my languid eyes,” ......0...-..c000 tea un; (aD i Tif. Dream of Antiquity—‘* I just had turn’d,” .,....... soeoes ste AG ty EV...“ Well— peste to thy Heart,” 25 vc... pc.ctvisc cess cocees seqretes O40 He ‘Vz “*T£ T-were yonder waye, my dears,” ...i.ccccecescgecavss cesses 249 £ES te Te mn or Tea uN on rm wana XViii CONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS Porus—(continucd. ) PAGE ~ VI. The Snow-Spirit—‘‘ No; ne’er did the wave,” ...s.ccseees 250 VII. “I stole along the flowery bank,”) ....cccccseesceseeceeseecenene 251 VII. “Behold, my love, the curious gem,” .s.s..ssveseesereeseeess 253 TX.. “There’s nota look, a word of thine,” ......sscesescersecceeee 253 To Joseph on Esq.—‘‘ The daylight is gone,” ......:-+..+++ 204 The Steersman’s Song—‘ When freshly blows,” ....s.s10ssscceeseees 254 To the Fire.Fly—‘‘'This morning, when the earth,” ...........+.. 256 To Lord Viscount Forbes—‘“‘ If former times had never,”......... 256 To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D.—‘‘’Tis OVEMING; a sce aineeeees nets 261. On leaving Philadelphia—‘ Alone by the Schuylkill,” ........... . 263 Lines written at the Cohos—“‘ From rise of Morn,” .....cesseveeees 264- Song of Evik Spirit of the Woods—‘‘ Now the vapour,”....s...0.. 265 To the Hon. W. R. Spencer—‘‘ Thou oft hast told. MG eosin 266 Ballad Stanzas—‘L knew by the smoke,” <...-dcrcsccsdscassneanecginns 262 Canadian Boat-Song—‘ Faintly as tolls the evening chime,” ... 269, To Lady Charlotte Rawdon—** Not aay months? 5.5. 205<0 se 270, Impromptu—‘“‘ "Twas but for a moment,” ......ssssseseesessereeeeses 274 Written on passing Dead-Man’s Island—** See oe sostienes Se 275 _ fo the Boston Frigate—‘“‘ With triumph, this,” ....... a) A ee oO Black and Blue Eyes—‘“‘ The brilliant black ao Se ee ; Dear Fanny—“‘ She has pemnty, but sbillyou. must, 2 ose peccsats 278 | ; ‘¢From life without freedom,” ...........ceceseeseene Ri ubuiel srapeoe oe aees 278 § *‘Here’s the bower she loved RoqmUth > tan deanee eee 278 “T saw the moon rise clear,”—Finland Love Song, ....scccseeeee 279 Love and the sun-dial—‘‘ Young love found a dial,” s.:.As.c00: 279 Love and Time—‘‘ Tis sa aid——but-whebher trues” Ac.tihecctee: 280 Love’s light summer-cloud—“‘ Pain and sorrow,” .c.s...eceeeeeeee 281 “Tove, wandering through the golden maze,”...J.6..-..c.:sseereeeee 281 ‘Merrily every bosom_poundeth,”—Tyrolese Song, ...... s+... 282 <¢ Oh remember the time,”—The Castilian Maid, v.05... ccctceaee 282 Oh, soon return—‘‘ The white sail caught,” -........c:.seeeeeeeees 283 Love Thee—‘‘ Oh yes !—so well, so fondenly: ewan tater shcyecs 283 One dear Smile —‘‘ Couldst thou look as dear,”?> 2... ..cecdeeeeseeee 284 The Day of Love—‘‘ The beam of morning,” ..i:...-0...cecceeueseeare 285 “Phe song of war-shall echo through,” ...6-..c.si:ccsssssuerethssetensys 285 ihe young rosé which d-give thee,’ icc. tisststesepine etc spemenrat 286 When midst the gay I meet,...... Sieiidvoscenseee ede ee aoe 286 ‘© When twilight dews are falling soft,”’.............080 Cee nore 286 ; Fanny, dearest—‘‘Oh! had I leisure to sigh,”............ ae 207 . “Sich not thus, O simple boy,” ......:0:ccseeeesees Wess re 288 Come love thabanurmurs in My breasts)’ erieeiay det yeee cet ais eros 288 ‘Young Ella was the happiest maid,” .......... Pitch 288 The Pilgrim—‘ Holy be the pilgrim’s sleep,” ..ssecccsssoveee oveee: CONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS Porms—(continued.) ° PAGE ** Wilt thow say farewell, love,” sss.e.scsesueee a Svecehat existe) 2 ae #.Cease,-olv cease to tempt, igi rscbexats cs iv hd wesegs 600055 cscss decor 291 eye Ui: PASS AWAY, si caihinstaeivake newest: veysdks nécs sca s0bsec is ss OE My Mary—‘‘ Love, my Mary, dwells with thee,”.........cscccesceees 292 “Now let the warrior wave his sword,” ..,....ccs.evsscesssecseeetsceses 292 ; “Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,” —......sc:s010 292 f MELOLOGUE upon National Music—Advertisement ........... Wasw ities 295 - ** There breathes a language, known and felt,” .......s0sces06 296 THE OpEs or ANACREON :— I. “‘I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,” ........ stltcs S01 Ii. ‘‘ Give me the harp of epic song,” ......:...cescceeeseee 302 Lids" Listen to the Muse's lyre,? oss. cts sv decent ives ce 302 a TV. “‘ Vulcan! hear your glorious task,” ....c...c.0...0088 os 303 #3 V. ‘* Grave me a cup with brilliant®grace,” .......c....008 303 i VI. ‘‘ As late I sought the spangled bowers,”.....cssssee++- 304 ai VAI. .“‘ The women tell me every day,” ..::.sssccsessaseeeecene 304 Habis VILE. ‘I care not for the idle state,” ...:Sint.ceteaccuc): 305 f EX. **T'pray thee, bythe gods above,” $e. c.:desset ative 305 ‘9 x. ‘Pell me how to punish thée,” 3...icccis-scscevetsoac evs 306 ia XE. -‘* Pell me, gentle.youth, I-pray thee,” .,.....2i.....02. 206 + XIf. ‘* They tellskhow Atys, wild with love,” .........00. 307 i Mellie“ bewills f will; the contich’s past,” s; a0 Wises 308 HE XIV. ‘* Tell me, why, my sweetest dove,” .......éccceceeees eee 308 $4 XY. ‘* Thou, whose soft and rosy hues,” ... siicec.eesaies 310 +4 XKVi. ‘And now with all thy peneil’s truth,” ..........0... oll a Rev EL Now the star of day.is high,” s.. vain aitecene 312 ii XVIII. ‘‘ Here recline you, gentle maid,” <..............cseeseses 312 ai XIX. ‘One day the Muses twined the hands,”............... 313 1! XX. ‘*Observe when mother earth is dry,” ........:isteses 313 XXE. ‘‘ The Phrygian rock that braves,” ...5......cccceeeyeee 314 XK S( often wish thislancuid lye,” Vth iw ans 314 ’ XXL ‘To all that breathe the airs of heaven,” ........ Seer ole XXIV.“ Once in each revolving year,” ic... ccc1.. scp escess cesses 316 ts! XXV. “Thy harp may sing of Troy’s alarms,” .....6...4..... 516 XXXVI. ‘‘ We read the flying courser’s name,” ......062éseecees 317 +; XX VII. “As in the Lemnian caves of fire,” .........caseraesenes S17 Hees XXVIII. “ Ves—loving is a painful thrill,” ...cccccsssus cores 318 hit XIX. ‘*’Twas in an airy dream of night,” ...........6 eee 319 XXX.“ Aim’d. with hyacinthine rody”: e .9sci shied 319 XXXII. “‘Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,” ......... Sua 320 . “Twas noon of night, when round,” ...........65 oe $5 EU ES EF SEE ETO OR Pete PEGE ee CTE ET Ears oe | VEL ESET TERE FCONTENTS. THE ODES OF ANACREON—(continued.) PAGE XXXII. ‘‘O thou of all creation DLEStP Siig ese deassioecseestes 322 MRKEV. ““Oupidonce upon a bed,” bois. tise cetepscseeeennnsceecs 322 XXXV. “If hoarded gold possess’d a power,” .........:eeceeess 323 XXXVI. ‘“’Ewas night, and many a circling bowl,” ............ 324 XXX VLU. ‘* Tet us drain-the nectar’d bowl,” -....0......c.ccese ee 324 SOK Vali. How: Llove the festive boy, stviiie~.cepute acces 325 XXXKIX. “I know that Heaven ordains me here,” ............ 325 XL. ‘*‘ When-spring begems the dewy scene,”..........000 326 XLI. “* Yes, be the glorious revel mine,” .........:...00.. 0 326 Rd SoWhile our-xosyfrllets sheds?) ecaeccusetgctsneenen 327 MU. “* Buds of rosés, virgin flowers,” i252. ..0.0 010 sce ese otees 328 XLIV. ““Within this goblet, rich and deep,” ....:....-00-00-+ 328 XLV. ‘See the young, the rosy Spring,” ... cece ees” 329 KEVI. ‘Tis true, my fading years-decline,” <........s.6.. te B29 XVil. “When my thirsty sould steep,” 2.5. cece se eeesass 330 XLVI. ‘‘ When Bacchus, Jove’s immortal boy,”.............+. 331 XGLx: So Wihen Tdrink, i feel dT feel v.04. eas aces 331 LL. ‘‘ Fly not thus my brow of snow,” ...... ost Oe ete 335 Li. ‘Away, away; yousmen of rules, 32.5 3.4s 332 LEH. *‘ When I behold the festive train,” , 0.0.50... .c0s0005 333° LI. ‘‘ Methinks the pictured bull we see,” ......ecc. cee aee 330 LIV. ‘* While we invoke the wreathed spring,” ............ 334. LV. ‘He who instructs the youthful crew,” ....0.......8. 335 - LVI. ** And whose immortal hand could shed,” .......:.... 336 LVil. ‘* When gold, as fleet as zephyr’s pinion,” ............ 300 LViikswsabled by the solar-beam,?’ \acscess.. io eee 338 LIX. “ Awake.to life my dulcet shell,” .ccceccceccoscsseccccene B38 LX. * Golden hues of youth are fled,” ... 02.5000. tise tace 340 ax. -** Hitlme, boy;as deep a draught, chee 340 LXtII. ‘To Love, the soft and blooming child,” ............ 341 JLXIIT. ‘‘ Haste thee nymph, whose wing’d spear,” .2....... 341 Bx Ve “Rich insbliss, [proudly scorns? 4.76205 wai OAD LXY. ‘‘ Now Neptune’s sullen month appears,”. ............ 349 LXVI. ‘‘ They wove the lotus band to deck,” ..........005..... 342 LXVII. ‘‘ A broken cake, with honey sweet,” ...........0000.. 342 : LXVIIL. ‘‘ With twenty chords my lyre is hung,”......... 005... 243 LXIX. ‘‘ Fare thee well, perfidious maid!” ........0...2...... 343 LXX. ‘*I bloom’d a while, a happy flower,” 2......0...6...... 343 UX XI.. ‘Monarch Gove ! resistless boy;” 0.83 acs, 343 LXXII. ‘‘ Spirit of Love, whose tresses shine,?~ ........c000... 344 HRCI! Hither, gentle Museof mine.) ose 6 344 LXXIV. ‘‘ Would that I were a tuneful lyre,” 1.0 00.00......... 344 LXXV. eae Pee ere ser eeeCONTENTS. THE ODES OF ANACREON—(continued.) PAGR ai) LXXVI. “Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray,” ..... Ss 345 i LXXVIT. ‘* het me resign a wretched breath,” ........esseeecece 345 H LXXVII. “J know thou lovest a brimming measure,” ......... 345 ; LXXTX. “I fear that love disturbs my rest,” ........-.:..eseeeee: 046 i LUXXX. “From dread Leucadia’s frowning steep,” ........ fee 340 fi PORT “Mix me, child, a etip divine,” sc. .0.-0 a. sce 346 if An Ode by the Translatomiccs sss nc oar Re ae 346 : i EPIGRAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA :— Hy fi Around the tomb, O hard Wivine 17? v0.05. cciesasiucs eo Sonveudea cee 348 “Here sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade,” ..ecccscccceenesceveeee 349 F : pee? seranmen Sit Anacrcon’s shelli?s “2.5... 2 ee 349 Fei *“ At length thy golden hours have wing’d their flight,” ......... 300 Hhi§ THE Tworenny Post-Bac: i PEACH yoo Fe ee Wis eRe is Si ona ia roexedlsi eck ota ee 302 : i j Letter I. From the Pr-nc-ss Ch——e of W——s to the ttt: Lady B=rb—a A-shl-y, oo voc.c, cesesccceccseeed oink 300 "4 tf eo II. From Colonel M‘M-h-n to G—Id Fr-ne-s L-ckie, Fit ~ BUS SES ccs eek cs otch ac petiany caper eae ee 304 3 » LI. From G. RB. to the E of Y———,, ......... aot + aS IV. From the Right Hon. P-tr-ck D-g-n-n to the if Right Hon. Sir J-hn N-ch-l, oo... ceckecsceeccase ess 358 <= He 5 V. From the Countess Dowager of C—— to Lady » 300 ip = VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mohassan, in E Espa ban euckis ace. PEATE Ped td sana Boieaee rene eer 361 43 he VII. From Messrs L-ck—gt-n and Co. to —— ——, of ESC p bcs coon c Side vas ok cued sys Pee ee ted 364 Hf 3» VIII. From Colonel Th-m-s to ERO) abe si ees 369 et 4% TRIFLES :— ti The Insurrection of the papers—‘‘ Last night I toss’d,” .........40. 375 ip Parody of a celebrated Letter—‘‘ At length, dearest,” .......066 376 1] Anacreontic to a Plumassier—‘‘ Fine and feathery,” ............... 379 tf Extracts from the Diary of a Politician,.............icciscceese vee teas COU ‘. Epigram—W hat news to-day ?—‘‘ Oh! worse,” .....d.c.eeseeseeeee dol i King Crack and his-Idols—‘‘ King Crack was the best,” ......... 381 i Pe Hats INy: THOMSEN LEO 27.2 re MEI o.0, coe ack Rarteelacetcepasuvews 382 : h Epigram. Dialogue between a Catholic Delegate and His R-y-1 HE: i-chn—ss the D=e of, —p—1—-d 5a. acne cessccvigs cach esnes cadens 382 } : Wreaths for Ministers—‘‘ Hither, Flora, queen,”..........sssesseeees 382 it Epigram. Dialogue between a Dowager and her maid on the : might: of ord. Y=rmi—=th 8 fates acu, cstcess tv ave. ve cochicetoess towtesss . 384 rf [oF SL STEUT TESETE GES Pere ee EC TORE ese are eee | SP¥egeic7 XXIi ae CONTENTS. TRIFLES—(continued.) Mage ek: , Horace, Ode XI.—‘‘ Come Y—-rm—th, my boy,” ..sccccccsssesseoeee 384 9» 9) SLIT The man who keeps? 2.00... sesceseansen encore Boas < Epigram, from the French—‘‘I never give a-kiss,” . ....c.0+eeeee + 386 On a Squinting Poetess—‘‘To no one Muse,” ........cseesseeereeeees 386 T «Die when you will, you need not wear,” ......1..+:.se200. BOO The New costume of the Ministers—‘‘ Having sent,” ...:.......-+.- 387 Occasional Address for the opening of the New Theatre of St : : St—ph—n’s—‘“‘ This day a New House,” .......cccsceseeeeseeeceee ese: 358 The Sale of the Tools—‘‘ Here’s a choice set,”..2....ccssseee-tres coe. OOD M.P.; or, THe BLUESTocCKING :— : = **Young Love lived once in a humble shed,”............c: 00+ ee Boas Reo sili.vep deel NO pain, Vo... sedcusscclesoecerasssteaceereaweee ss wove Eo SHRI OF J OV a abiiy, alual dlOd, .o. tev. tr. cutee as; trentuie ages eeepees pine 394 - : eWeahen duelactouchd the lhe’ 9.5.,. 444 Eyeleen’s Bower—“‘ Oh! weep for the hour,” ..........c0.ceceee00 5. 445 The Song of Fionnuala—‘‘ Silent, O Moyle,” ..0.........ccccleseeen 446 eet bein rememper. the days of old. 4. sca nk ee 446 ** Come, send round the wine, and leave points,” .......... eae 447 ** Sublime was the warning which liberty spoke,” ............0... 448 ** Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,” ......:........ 448 Erin! O Erin !—“‘ Like the bright lamp that lay,” ......: Samaria 449 Sep bvle GO-NCE WEOGONE, © io5s8 ei ocs cca dee Sivs eae en ct see 449 **Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,” ............... 450 ‘* While gazing on the moon’s light,” ..........0..:. Piet ee 451 Til omens—‘* When daylight was yet sleeping,” ..... eet ree 452 Before the Battle—‘‘ By the hope within us,” .......c..c.scesse00s.06 48 After the Battle—‘* Night closed around,” ..0.2.coc.ceccscccsceeeoecs 453 “Oh! ’tis sweet to think, that, where’er we rove,” -4......... ae SO The Trish Peasant to his Mistress—‘*‘ Through erief,’’..........60... 455 On Music—“ When through life unblest we rove,” ......cceccceeeeee 455 * Hele hrtiata: ee iiediasttbaic 2 a purists et mere aac bart at “ i a SV sapriepei“he tg eenrt Aliathetahetes eee peu cretiad rhe ~ alge oe =}LALLA ROOKHE. In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favour of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet, and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendour to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Rookh * —a princess described by the poets of her time, as more beautiful than Leila, Shirine, Dewildé, or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months’ repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia. The day of Lalla Rookh’s departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul Reazee, or the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father,—who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran,—and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the perpetual lamp in her sister’s tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore. Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb, From * Tullp Cheels. i ener teks Lie neat artis mains tae raat uereernbres ne ren ee en icp eb erkat it tere tt tt os her are eign etPeper ares eden etree er ee ice eer eerie MiLHiigianet inane! OU 4 LALLA ROOKH. the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace it was one un- broken line of splendour. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favour, the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles ; —the costly armour of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan, in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold ;—the glittering of the gilt pine-apples on the tops of the palankeens ;—the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were enshrined ;—the rose-coloured veils of the Princess’s own sumptuous litter, at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains with feathers of the Argus pheasant’s wing ;—and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honour, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses ;—all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant. Fadladeen was a judge of everything,—from the penciling of a Circassian’s eye-lids to the deepest questions of science and literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,—“ Should the Prince at noonday say, ‘It is night,’ declare that you behold the moon and stars.’ And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector, was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of Jugghernaut. During the first days of their journey, Lalla Rookh, who had passed all her life within the shadow of the royal gardens of Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when, at evening or in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments,—sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl; sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banian tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, as “places of melanchely, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves,’—she felt a charm in these scenes so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love variety; nor could the conversation of her ladies andLALLA ROOKH. 5 the great chamberlain, Fadladeen, (the only persons, of course, ad- mitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra, the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver ; not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon. At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman Fadladeen, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tingling of their golden anklets was an abomination. But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attend- ants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the valley for his manner of reciting the stories of the East, on whom his royal master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some of his most agree- wble recitals. At the mention of a poet, Fadladeen elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium, which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence. The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her father’s hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favourable ideas of the cast, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her ;—she felt inclined how- ever to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of Feramoraz. He was a youth about Lalla Rookh’s own age, and graceful as that idol of woman, Chrishna (the Indian Apollo),—such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness, and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply. Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negli- gence ;—nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to Fadladeen upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery. For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar,—such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the west used to listen to by moonlight Lg he oe wen. Tee apes! 7 ee Car saan et hibsha ek = A ehorensreren tia tas: 5 Se ie bidkdee oa) aee, eben ad ated bidet erie Lt hae Ter eares rf et rasmerits sala asehabiabsastaas ere Felabdalepentalnibabcshackend deme stects Releases Hehensariw nis rean nen rere Cruel is Cleats ee ee eee c ie rdsben site geet * per erriaen ray mecha | | LALLA ROOKH. { in the gardens of the Alhambra,—and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the | adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, who, in the year | of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Hastern | Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began :— | | | NIE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN." In that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where, all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowerets and fruits blush over every stream, And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves Among Merou’s + bright palaces and groves ;— There on that throne, to which the blind belief Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-Chief, The Great Mokanna. O’er his features hung The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung Tn mercy there, to hide from mortal sight His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light. For, far less luminous, his votaries said, Were even the gleams miraculously shec O’er Moussa’st cheek, when down the Mount he trod, All glowing from the presence of his God! On either side, with ready hearts and hands, His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ; Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, On points of faith, more eloquent than words ; And guch their zeal, there’s not a youth with brand Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command, Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, And bless the lips that doom’d so dear a death ! In hatred to the Caliph’s hue of night,§ Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white; Their weapons various—some equipp’d, for speed, With javelins of the light Kathaian reed; Or bows of buffalo horn, and shining quivers Fill’d with the stems || that bloom on Ivan’s rivers; | While some, for war’s more terrible attacks, | Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe ; * “ Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Regicn of the Sun.” = + One of the royal cities of Khorassan. { Moses. § Black was the colour adopted by the Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards. Bee | || Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. | | |THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, And as they wave aloft in morning’s beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove, when winter throws O’er all its tufted heads his feathering snows. Between the porphyry pillars that uphold The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Haram’s curtain’d galleries rise, Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes, From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Through autumn clouds, shine o’er the pomp below. What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare To hint that aught but Heaven hath placed you there? Or that the loves of this light- world could bind, In their gross chain, your Prophet’s soaring mind? No—wrongful thought !—commission’d from above To people Eden’s bowers with shapes of love, (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) There to recline among Heayen’s native maids, And crown th’ Elect with bliss that never fades !- Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done ; And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at Brahma’s burning founts,* To the fresh nymphs bounding o’er Yemen’s mounts ; From Persia’s eyes of full and fawn-like ray, To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay ; + And Georgia’s bloom, and Azab’s darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles; All, all are there ;—each land its flower hath given, To form that fair young nursery for Heaven! But why this pageant now? this arm’d array ? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turban’d heads of every hue and race Bowing before that veil’d and awful face, Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes Bending beneath th’ invisible west-wind’s sighs! What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign And blood to seal as genuine and divine,— What dazzling mimickry of God’s own power Hath the bold Prophet plann’d to grace this hour? Not such the pageant now, though not less proud,— Yon warrior youth advancing from the crowd With silver bow, with belt of broider’d crape, And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape, So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, Like war's wild planet in a summer sky-~ * “Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy.” ¢ Chine. frig ni aa Lreraret retcs Eereirer sere limes licateten eee nei he ee tS Te nes eae ert ea tee oie!oe ae = oe res LALLA ROOKH. That youth to-day,—a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practised swords,— Is come to join, all bravery and belief, The creed and standard of the Heaven-sent Chief. Though few his years, the West already knows Young Azim’s fame ;—beyond th’ Olympian snows, Ere manhood darken’d o’er his downy cheek, O’erwhelm’d in fight and captive to the Greek, Fe linger’d there till peace dissolved his chains. Oh! who could, even in bondage, tread the plains Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise nm Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes, 5 Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see The shining foot-prints of her Deity, Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air, Which mutely told her spirit had been there? Not he, that youthful warrior,—no, too well For his soul’s quiet work’d th’ awakening spell; And now, returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, Haunt the young heart ;—proud views of human-kind, Of men to gods exalted and refined ;— False views, like that horizon’s fair deceit, Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to meet !— Soon as he heard an arm divine was raised To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed On the white flag Mokanna’s host unfwld, hose words of sunshine, “ Freedom to the World,” At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey’d Th’ inspiring summons; every chosen blade That fought beneath that banner’s sacred text Seem’d doubly edged, for this world and the next; And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind In Virtue’s cause—never was soul inspired With livelier trust in what it most desired, Than his, th’ enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale With pious awe, before that silver veil, Believes the form to which he bends his knee Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free This fetter’d world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again! Low as young-Azim knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth’s nations sunk the knee and bow’d, With shouts of “ Alla!” echoing long and loud; : While high in air, above the Prophet's head, a Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, plone ka eee Ronee eae Me elsTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Waved like the wings of the white birds that fan The flying throne of star-taught Soliman ! Then thus he spoke :—“ Stranger, though new the frame Thy soul inhabits now, I’ve track’d its flame For many an age,* in every chance and change Of that existence through whose varied range,— As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand The flying youths transmit their shining brand,— From frame to frame the unextinguish’d soul Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal ! “Nor think ’tis only the gross spirits, warm’d With duskier fire and for earth’s medium form’d, That run this course ;—beings the most divine Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt, To which all heaven, except the Proud One, knelt : + Such the refined Intelligence that glow'’d In Moussa’s frame—and, thence descending, flow’d Through many a prophet’s breast—in Issa } shone, And in Mohammed burn’d; till, hastening on, (As a bright river that, from fall to fall In many a maze descending, bright through all, Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, In one full lake of light it rests at last !) That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free From lapse or shadow, centres all in me!” Again, throughout th’ assembly at these words, Thousands of voices rung: the warriors’ swords Were pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind In th’ open banners play’d, and from behind Those Persian hangings that but ill could screen The Haram’s loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider’d scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth—like those the Houris wave When beckoning to their bowers th’ immortal brave, “ But these,” pursued the Chief, “are truths sublime, That claim a holier mood and calmer time Than earth allows us now ;—this sword must first The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in Her wakening day-light on a world of sin! But then, celestial warriors, then when all Earth’s shrines and thrones before our banner fall; * «The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines.” ‘ + And when we said unto the angels, “‘ Worship Adam,” they all worshipped him except Eblis (Lucifer,) who refused.—Zhe Koran, chap. il, ¢ Jesus. Pee Seema tier ts beh : A Pera Peer hea npee am, Tose gmemanans sector et enn press pert eecberettar ie Cea benahih sebontsha demaeied Liebe hee eet Ts tee Senre ptr re Care eters red eae, i ret tea at Setenmen rivet Riko! ets tt ee Pant rea — eee th es “ Wert ited eee ar priwricetd prdbidbatanbedthaasenieks oth Sa ose crete bau rhb fade oe pr Aub beiny-rotag ty Mn ee Pas Pokaan a LALLA ROOKH. When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown, The priest his book, the conquerer his wreath, And from the lips of Truth one fnighty breath Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze That whole dark pile of human mockeries ;— Then shall the reign of Mind commence on earth, And starting fresh as from a second birth, Man, in the sunshine of the world’s new spring, Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing i Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow Shall cast the veil that hides its splendours now, And gladden’d Earth shall, through her wide expanse, Bask in the glories of this countenance ! “Por thee, young warrior, welcome !—thou hast yet Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, Tire the white war-plume o’er thy brow can wave ; But, once my own, mine all till in the grave !” The pomp is at an end,—the crowds are gone— Tach ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice which thrill'd like Alla’s own ! The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne, and Haram’s half-caught glances ; The old deep pondering on the promised reign Of peace and truth; and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes could they but gaze A moment on that brow’s miraculous blaze | But there was one, among the chosen maids Who blush’d behind the gallery’s silken shades, One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death ;—you saw her pale dismay, Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst : Of exclamation from her lips, when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known ; Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. Ah Zelica! there was a time when bliss Shone o’er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul’s fondest prayer | When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate’er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when, if he touch’d a flower Or gem of thine, ’twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone And gestuxe and dear look became thy own,—| THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music fraught With twice th’ aerial sweetness it had brought ! Yet now he comes—brighter than even he Her beam’d before,—but ah! not bright for thee; No—dread, unlook’d for, like a visitant From th’ other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory’s aching sight :— Sad dreams! as when the spirit of our youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours, and leads us back, In mournful mockery, o’er the shining track Of our young life, and points out every ray Of hope and peace we’ve lost upon the way ! Once happy pair !—in proud Bokhara’s groves, Who had not heard of their first youthful loves ? Born by that ancient flood,* which from its spring In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enrich’d by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from Bucharia’s ruby mines, And, lending to the Caspian half its strencth, In the cold Lake of Wagles sinks at length ;— There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers that hung above its wave at morn Bless’d not the waters as they murmur’d by, With holier scent and lustre than the sigh And virgin glance of first affection cast Upon their youth’s smooth current, as it pass’d! But war disturb’d this vision—far away From her fond eyes, summon’d to join th’ array Of Persia’s warriors on the hills of Thrace, The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field’s deathful clash ; His Zelica’s sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and love’s gentle chains For bleeding bondage on Byzantium’s plains. Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away—but, ah! how cold and dim Ev’n summer suns when not beheld with him ! From time to time ill-omen’d rumours came (Like spirit-tongues, muttering the sick man’s name, * The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches, one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles. Pat ot rete tae hee eatin Millet JTiyeecat ante hits arate pes res bask abhsiehlird hibdibacotonh-sanaouos a rae args hs aa ret a) betel hats thts eeheren pita eae Set sd, re ia Pedersen errs bets a bitches tele yi ren herb oe a as Coprp oe sub psarpanipaatnt eases tata penn aneay i dledee a) A ys entre if barr P we SSP cee eet eater ies teak 2 Leite ie Wei En heer bene ede bene 5 eptets LALLA. ROOKH. Just ere he dies,)—at length those sounds of dread Fell withering on her soul, “ Azim is dead!” Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it loved to live or fear’d to die ;— Lorn as the hung-up lute that ne’er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken ! Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Ev’n reason sunk—blighted beneath its touch ; And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose Above the first dead pressure of its woes, Though health and bloom return’d, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never clear’d again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth’s happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turn’d astray ;— A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone All stars of heaven, except the guiding one! Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled, But ’twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute’s touching strain, Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, The bulbul * utters ere her soul depart, When, vanquish’d by some minstrel’s powerful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart! Such was the mood in which that mission found Young Zelica,—that mission, which around The Kastern world, in every region blest With woman’s smile sought out its loveliest To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes Which the Veil’d Prophet destined for the skies | And such quick welcome as a spark receives Dropp’d on a bed of autumn’s wither’d leaves, Did every tale of these enthusiasts find ° In the wild maiden’s sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once, the madd’ning zeal she caught ;— Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought ; Predestined bride, in Heaven’s eternal dome, Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say “ of some?” No—of the one, one only object traced In her heart’s core too deep to be effaced ; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined With every broken link of her lost mind; Whose image lives, though reason’s self be wreck’d, Safe ’mid the ruins of her intellect ! * The nightingale.THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Alas, poor Zelica! it needed all The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall To see in that gay Haram’s glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden’s shades ; Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With souls like thine, which he hath ruin’d here! No—had not reason’s light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the loved image, graven on thy heart, Which would have saved thee from the tempter’s art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, That purity, whose fading is love’s death !— But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin’s still and feminine grace ;— First of the Prophet’s favourites, proudly first In zeal and charms,—too well th’ Impostor nursed Her soul’s delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e’er twined. No art was spared, no witchery ;—all the skill His demons taught him was employ’d to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns— That gloom, through which frenzy but fiercer burns ; That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness Glares like the maniac’s moon, whose light is madness { "Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breathed around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit’s light should pass away, And, realising more than youthful love E’er wish’d or dream’d, she should for ever rove Through fields of fragrance by her Azim’s side, His own bless’d, purified, eternal bride !— "Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel-house ;—through all its streams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul corruption lights, as with design To shew the gay and proud she too can shine |— And, passing on through upright ranks of dead Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread, Seem’d, through the bluish death-light round them east. > Spectres toh 1} bebbrinntel ' , isnt eset) Med J ee beeen acetic ae Rms ante: nee saiecereeen eas pores’H-ninepeenasenere:s cope i Lepeent ers mae PON ory bine aati babidabeinasiaaraeonaombieden va rapt elspa eg erage ees heh are Pers 3 ee eter Sainte it oe _ eee See hehehe fares ert bbetuptabs sebrohrheetelehobthenhatenadttid hr tad fafAs amiataatinns eat co a * Ss see peneatete tT irene ari bad cuca eee LALLA ROOKH. Fo move their lips in mutterings as she pass d— There, in that awful place, when each had quaff’d And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, Such-——oh ! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell’s own language framed, Never, while earth his mystic presence clain’d, While the blue arch of day hung o’er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever. She swore, and the wide charnel echo’d, “Never, never [7 From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given To him and—she believed, lost maid !—to Heaven ; Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflamed, How proud she stood, when in full Haram named. The Priestess of the Faith !—how flash’d her eyes With light, alas! that was not of the skies, When round in trances only less than hers, She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers ! Well might Mokanna think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own :— Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit’s play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away ! Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across th’ uncalm, but beauteous firmament. And then her look !—oh! where’s the heart so Wise, Could unbewilder’d meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels, just before their fall; Now shadow’d with the shaines of earth—now crozé By glimpses of the heaven her heart had lost ; In every glance there broke, without control, The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly play’d, Like lightning, round the ruins it had made! And such was now young Zelica—so changed From her who, some years since, delighted ranged The almond groves that shade Bokhara’s tide, All life and bliss, with Azim by her side! So altered was she now, this festal day, When, ’mid the proud Divan’s dazzling array, The vision of that youth, whom she had loved, And wept as dead, before her breathed and moved ;—THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. When—bright, she thought, as if from Eden’s track But half-way trodden, he had wander’d back Again to earth, glistening with Eden’s light— Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. Oh Reason! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! Through what small vistas o’er the darken’d brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhoped-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, wakened in the breast By memory’s magic, lets in all the rest ! Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee ! But though light came, it came but partially ; Enough to shew the maze in which thy sense Wander’d about,—but not to guide it thence ; Enough to glimmer o’er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbour which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o’er her mind ; But oh! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; And, then, her oath—there madness lay again, And shuddering, back she sunk into her chain Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! Yet, one relief this glance of fornier years Brought, mingled with its pain,—tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost! Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she till now, had heard with ecstasy) To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream’s side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray; Sometimes alone—but oftener far with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison, Of late none found such favour in his sight As the young Priestess; and though since that night When the death-caverns echo’d every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own,ih etie ya tothe ier etl praece eee Coes bak aoe reer Ee ee prt eesiceera etait eee ee ee Sete: fonennae! seein terres bel nid kind Pa eae eee we thane Ree td th PR Eee ltt rnl tobtpape PSs nO ae Py Mere as ny lpi LALLA ROCKH. Th’ Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, Had more than once.thrown off his soul’s disguise, And utter’d such unheavenly, monstrous things ‘As even across the desperate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ; Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought still haunting her of that bright brow Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal ’d, Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd, To her alone ;—and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth’s grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before,—as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies— ‘And that when Azim’s fond, Divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once loved remain, But all be bright, be pure, be zs again :— These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain’d her soul beneath the tempter’s feet, ‘And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that shape, which had appall’d her view, hat semblance—oh, how terrible, if true !— Which came across her frenzy’s full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ;— So came that shock not frenzy’s self could bear, And waking up each long-lull’d image there, But check’d her headlong soul, to sink it in despair ! Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, Mokanna waited her—too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening future's rich success To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim’s downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter’d now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light boun: Came like a spirit o’er th’ unechoing ground,— From that wild Zelica, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose very thought a trance ! Upon his couch the veil’d Mokanna lay, While lamps around—not such as lend their ray,THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Koom,* or Mecca’s dim arcades,— But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic veil’s white glittering flow. Beside him, ’stead of beads and books of prayer, Stood vases, filled with Kishmee’s + golden wine, And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine; Of which his curtain’d lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff’d, Like Zemzem’s Spring of Holiness,f had power To freshen the soul’s virtues into flower ! And still he drank and ponder’d—nor could see Th’ approaching maid, so deep his reverie; From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke :— “Yes, ye vile race, for hell’s amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven; God’s images, forsooth !—such gods as he Whom India serves, the monkey deity ; § Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven’s light, To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !— Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck Of your foul race, and without fear or check, Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man’s name !— Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce As hooded falcons, through the universe Dll sweep my darkening, desolating way, Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey ! “Ye wise, ye learn’d, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light Ye shall have honours—wealth,—yes, sages, yes— I know, grave fools, your wisdom’s nothingness ; Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. * «The cities of Com (or Koom) and Kashan are full of mosques, mauso- leums, and sepulclires of the descendants of Ali, the saints of Persia.” | + An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wince. ¢ “The miraculous well at Mecca; so called from the murmuring of its waters.” § The goud Hannaman. || A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory; the candle for which. was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From dead men’s marrow guides them best at night ||— —— oe tat rd tenes st See et ts aie rs ae. +e errr ts ms hay 4 oa elated tol 10 ~ ee Sep nenesree ens ts vo weenedvetatepeabatsante 0 sat nt Fbhttlotadeeeedbdeet adeet nts th peers ed Cea ds el ee A rledacaberGuebc denser oat fresh rebate bpesbel ete erry eas ene palnohal a Pare Seeded sat — baud et eer ere peeeeine S Seer Lk dude ar rr Rene ie oe ee - cana babnie sie sucnaes Seam en ee Seca or eee heather ‘ Code te eter roe Papeete sees seer ae eee er eee eed eh ot Shit, Gebel kak ald cere rents Hrtiena ete Cra tr Deore potato Bebthabenatts ee ee begs as enews. feed eoubteh Tope ae rivers sine rhipdideed ted hake eee an ee PF; re ke aad bass naubeibelibdaieieds) ee eal LALLA ROOKH. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along In lying speech, and still more lying song, By these learn’d slaves, the meanest of the throng ;_ Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, A sceptre’s puny point can wield it all! “Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds ; Who, bolder even than Nimrod, think to rise, By nonsense heap’d on nonsense, to the skies ; Ye shall have miracles, ay, gound. ones too, een, heard, attested, everything—but true. Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seex One grace of meaning for the things they speak; Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood For truths too heavenly to be understood ; And your state priests, sole vendors of the lore That works salvation ;—as on Ava’s shore, Where none bué priests are privileged. to trade Tn that best marble of which gods are made ;— They shall have mysteries—ay, precious stuff For knaves to thrive by—mysterious enough ; Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, While craftier feign belief, till they believe. A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,— A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must : That prophet ill sustains his holy call Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. Vain things !—as lust or vanity inspires, The heaven of each is but what each desires, And, soul or sense, whate’er the object be, Man would be man to all eternity ! So let him—Eblis! grant this crowning curse, But keep him what he is, no hell were worse, ’— “Qh, my lost soul!” exclaim’d the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said,— Mokanna started—not abash’d, afraid,— He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But in those dismal words that reach’d his ear, “Oh, my lost soul!” there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o’er hell’s gate is read, That, new as twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, “Ha, my fair Priestess !”—thus, with ready wile, Th’ impostor turn’d to greet her—‘‘ thou whose smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam Beyond th’ enthusiast’s hope or prophet’s dream ! Light of the Faith! who twin’st religion’s zeal So close with love’s, men know not which they fecl, Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thon art! What should I be without thee? without thee How dull were power, how joyless victory ! Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine Bless’d not my banner, ’twere but half divine. But—why so mournful, child? those eyes that shone All life last night—what !—is their glory gone? Come, come—this morn’s fatigue hath made them pale They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail, Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, From light’s own fount supplies of brillianey ! Thou seest this eup—no juice of earth is here, But the pure waters of that upper sphere, Whose rills o’er ruby beds and topaz flow, Catching the gems’ bright colour as they go. Nightly my genii come and fill these urns— Nay, drink—in every drop life’s essence burns; "Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all bright— Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night : There is a youth—why start ?—thou sawst him then; Look’d he not nobly? such the god-like men Thow lt have to woo thee in the bowers above ;— Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss The world calls Virtue—we must conquer this ;— Nay, shrink not, pretty sage; ’tis not for thee To scan the mazes of heaven’s mystery. The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. This very night I mean to try the art Of powerful beauty on that warrior’s heart, All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, Shall tempt the boy ;—young Mirzala’s biue eyes, Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies; Arouya’s cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, Have magic in their pressure; Zeba’s lute, And Lilla’s dancing feet, that gleam and shoot Rapid and white as sea-birds o’er the deep !— All shall combine their witching powers to steep My convert’s spirit in that softening trance, 3 a mmetemes mot Sos ractrem teeth ped ditt aria rhd) Shumoston ree SePek pe ee he Cad Petre try see 59 penton ba tai dala eter etbeeer arr te omer aa Sere or bere ers Hoeptrers ey Pereresaate rer rere es ; or whitdidtdubauabtoseaasaabanpeteees ae tae Litas ae ered ners ee ere peptone i 3 ar sere) budeabdonls Rarer ees eee beans padded ba eeeibeone ta rors eereret tir. taconite eet ae <—Trree ey LALLA ROOKH. From which te heaven is but the next advance ;— That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast On which Religion stamps her image best. But hear me, Priestess !-though each nymph of these Hath some peculiar, practised power to please, Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried, Tirst charms herself, then all the world beside ; There still wants one, to make the victory sure, One, who in every look joins every lure; Through whom all beauty’s beams concentred pass, Dazzling and rich, as through love’s pburning-glass ; VYhose gentle lips persuade without a word, Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored, Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, Which our faith takes for granted are divine ! Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, To crown the rich temptations of to-night ; Such the refined enchantress that must be This hero’s vanquisher,—and thou art she!” With her hands lasp’d, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil From which these words, like south-winds through a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill’d with pestilence :* So boldly utter’d too! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, And the wretch felt assured that, once plunged in, Her woman’s soul would know no pause in sin! At first, though mute she listen‘d, like a dreara Seem’d all he said; nor could her mind, whose beam As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. But when, at length, he utter’d, “Thou art she!” All flash’d at once, and shrieking piteously, “Oh, not for worlds! » she cried—*< Great God! to whom I once knelt innocent, is this my doom? Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, My purity, my pride, then come to this,— To live the wanton of a fiend! to be The pander of his guilt—oh, infamy ! And, sunk myself as low as hell can steep In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! Others ?—ha ! yes—that youth who came to-day— Not him I loved—not him—oh! do but say, But swear to me this moment ’tis not he, And I will serve, dark fiend !—will worship, even thee |” that if a man breathe in the hot south ® «Jt ig commonly said in Persia, that flower, (the Kerzereh,) it will wind, which in June or J uly passes over kill him.”THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. “ Beware, young raving thing !—in time, beware, Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear Kven from thy lips. Go—try thy lute, thy voice, The boy must feel their magic—I rejoice To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, Once more illuming my fair Priestess’ eyes ; Aud should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm, Indecd resemble thy dead lover’s form, So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, Excells ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet !—those eyes were made For love, not anger—I must be obey’d.” “ Obey’d !—'tis well—yes, I deserve it all— On me, on me Heaven’s vengeance cannot fall Too heavily—but Azim, brave and true And beautiful —must he be ruin’d too? Must fe too, glorious as he is, be driven A renegade like me from love and heaven ? Like me ?—weak wretch, I wrong him—not like ine; No—he’s all truth and strength and purity ! Fill up your madd’ning hell-cup to the brim, Its witchery, fiend, will have no charm for him. Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers, He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers! Wretch as I am, in Ais heart still I reign Pure as when first we met, without a stain! Though ruin’d—lost—my memory, like a charm Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm. Oh! never let him know how deep the brow He kiss’d at parting is dishonour’d now— Ne’er tell him how debased, how sunk is she Whom once he loved—once !—s#ild loves dotingly ! Thou laughst, tormentor,—what !—thou'lt brand my name? Do, do—in vain—he’ll not believe my shame— He thinks me true, that nought beneath God’s sky Could tempt or change me, and so once thought I. But this is past—though worse than death my lot. Than hell—’tis nothing, while he knows it not. Far off to some benighted land I’ll fly, Where sunbeam ne’er shall enter till I die; Where none will ask the lost one whence she came, But I may fade and fall without a name! And thou—curst man or fiend, whate’er thou art, Who foundst this burning plague-spot in my heart, And spreadst it—oh, so quick !—through soui and frame With more than demon’s art, till I became A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame !— et er aera ebeediebiies Cale reer See een PP eareth vee gn-i pimvo FON Rees anieeha Th watiee koe aoe pai wen eeagns peeeea drei! Ps Pree eerer rors previeneer errr 2tao errre errr rrr tia Setter peter rey ere ee tint SLasse wih Sern ep Syres peter ts es Labeled bhiaesbtibacksal Sree Seren Career ny eves ran SEE} ren zs Parr wind eet ene heh oyrpresio€, i a otiee ae a iit peers con | press te ee eee Se ett Pe Cero t er Tred nen nn aiedia as ct Piek> tele hrtevaric tel ert bee * 22 Pee Le? a a ¢ teal Lhe ot eke tri peers Se eee hes uma eect ubed rr ge eae $ tea a ciie bd Leela ok be Pk ed LALLA ROOKH. 59 Tf, when I’m gone— ; “ Fold, fearless maniac, hold, Nor tempt my rage—by Heaven not half so bold The puny bird that dares with teasing hum Within the crocodile’s stretch’d jaws to come ! * And go thou 'lt fly, forsooth ?—what !—give up all Thy chaste dominion in the Haram hall, Where, now to love and now to Alla g.ven, Half mistress and half saint, thou hangst as even Ags doth Medina’s tomb, ’twixt hell and heayen ! Thou’lt fly ?—as easily may reptiles run The gaunt snake once hath fix’d his eyes upon; As easily, when caught, the prey may be Pluck’d from his loving folds, as thou from me. No, no, *tis fix’d—let good or ill betide, Thou’rb mine till death—till death Mokanna’s bride ! Hast thou forgot thy oath ?”— At this dread word, The Maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr’d Through all its depths, and roused an anger there That burst and lighten’d even through her despair :— Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath That spoke that word, and stagger’d, pale as death. “ Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in bowers Their bridal place—the charnel vault was ours ! Tnstead of scents and balms, for thee and me Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality ;— Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed, And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead (Immortal spirits in their time no doubt) From reeking shrouds upon the rite look’d out! That oath thou hardest more lips than thine repeat-— That cup—thou shudderest, lady—was it sweet ? That cup we pledged, the charnel’s choicest wine, Hath bound thee—ay—body and soul all mine ; Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curss No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, Look wild, look—anything but sad; yet stay— One moment more—from what this night hath pass’d, T see thou knowst me, knowst me well at last. Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thoughtst ail true, And that I love mankind !—I do, 1 do— As victims, love them; as the sea-dog doats Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats ; * «Phe ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or humming bird, entering | vith impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at Java.”THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 23 oF as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives That rank and venomous food on which she lives !-— “And now thou seest my soul’s angelic hue, "Tis time these features were u ineurtain’d too ;— This brow, whose light—oh, rare celestial light ! Hath been reserved to bless thy favour’d sight ; These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded migl a Thou ’st seen immortal man kneel down and quake Would that they were Heaven’s lightnings for his sake ! But turn and look—then wonder, “if thou wilt, That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth Sent me thus maim’d and monstrous upon earth; And on that race who, though more vile they be Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me! Here—judge if hell, with all its power to damn, Can add one curse to the foul thing I am !”— ‘He raised his veil—the Maid turn’d slowly pound, Look’d at him—shriek’d—and sunk upon the ground ! On their arrival, next night, at the place of encampment, they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all round illumi- nated; some artists of Yamtcheou having been sent on previously for the purpose. On each side of the green alley, wack led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of ‘bamboo-work were erected, representing arches, minarets, and t towers, from which hung thou- sands of silken lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton. Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shining in the light of the bamboo scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan. Lalla Rookh, how ever, who was too much occupied by the sad story of Zelica and her lover, to give a thought to anything else, peoee perhaps, to him who related it, hurried on through this scene splendour to her pavilion, —greath 1 to the mortification of the ne artists of Yamtcheou, —and was followed with « qual rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Man- darin, whose pare ental anxiety in lighting 1 up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wa nder ed and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic “Chinese iluminatio Without a moment's delay young Feramorz was i Fadladeen, who could never make ip his mind as to the merits of & poet, till ho knew the religious sect to which he be elonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands for silence ; and the youth, being seated upon the musnud near her, proceede d:— + ts. introduc ed, ¢ and 1 Prepare thy soul young Azim !—thou hast braved The bands of Greece, still mighty though enslaved; > nee i ‘ iasaae ts er pied Geet at ee paper harer tare bobbie aa peacpneerer are oT Typhpnut “A rie reir ny bebe Sear Serer heise u ror atone ae, et of crenesoury eee Peay eer ee Davie heietel 4 eh rtet peter re re we! errr a tet os re rs sd pudosiged nth pndeni eee pert os ey Cees peaercheets ee ania ran, See tl Seetrebtteepetteenn teprto teh leer stapes abslearsedeta Phir “ iro eins ied Phtenieede " va, Wepre iy ererts Son batecer eee aodcnane wens MM rerorteienias Flies * «Thou hast ravished my heart with o + “They tinged the ends of her finger resembled branches of coral.” the black Ikohol.” LALLA ROOKH. Hast faced her phalanx, arm’d with all its fame, Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame; ‘All this hast fronted with firm heart and brow; But a more perilous trial waits the now,— Woman’s bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes Yrom every land where woman smiles or sighs; Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azure banner in their blaze ; ‘And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash, To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid, Like swords half-sheathed, beneath the downeast lid. Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host Now led against thee ; and let conquerors boast Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty’s charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall Ts the best, bravest conqueror of them ail. Now, through the Haram chambers moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet’s rites ;— Trrom room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill’d to wreathe the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, O’er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, Like Seba’s Queen, could vanquish with that one : *— While some bring leaves of henna, to imbue The fingers’ ends with a bright roseate hue,+ So bright, that in the mirror’s depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream 5 And others mix the kohol’s jetty dye, To give that long dark languish to the eye,+ Which makes the maids, whom kings are prou From fair Circassia’s vales, so beautiful ! d to cull Allis in motion; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining everywhere :—some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads 5 Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful, ’tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood’s innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. ne of thine eyes.” —Sol. Song. s scarlet with henna, so that they “The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder namedTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, 25 The maid of India, blest again to hold In her full lap the champac’s leaves of gold,* Thinks of the time when by the Ganges’ flocd, Her little playmates scatter’d many a bud Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream : While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,— The sweet elcaya,} and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy {— Sees, call’d up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father’s tents Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes even its sorrows back again |! 3 Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount is heard around, Young Azim roams bewilder’d,—nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here the way leads o’er tesselated floors Cr mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns : And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of Tibet,§ send forth odorous light, Like Peris’ wands, when pointing out the road For some pure spirit to its blest abode !— And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon: Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as th’ enamell’d cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain’s silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye That on the margin of the Red Sea lie, Here tvo he traces the kind visitings Of woman’s love in those fair, living thiugs * “The appearance of the blossoms of the eold-colouved campac in tho black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit poets with many elegant allusions.” + “A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of Yemen.” t Of the genus mimosa, which droops its branches whenever any person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its shade.” § ‘Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of the perfumed rods which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence ” Opeeeee) sone lean butik piddond aed Pee a eT oye rer Des Se ene tet rtindd sot Peters os ooCeuta did oe Mt dd kL ee . i Sen eee eee ee ee teeteeee eee a 35 hae pens Creates het its mo Seid, hh adeadihadidaechdiied “ eerie Se haba bee bots et aoe ee Chee eas Te careers Pita ee tet ar erst Pot eet pera eeer retry et Sabes. sep teopeie € Serre ie noses crete rire crit ws Pe ratte teh aerate iy ive CUmeaheie oe ees ce ree obrtrttateh er ay Bibra Eb Md edt paki bielgleadidesnale ee ee ere raat ta | Thar tered aset hadnt spe ere Se SERN Se A eared actos Eee Se etre Do ers eaieee omsakains pabibeiaeet te a potobyp bd ret ar Mindi tr Ltt oe ae lee eT Laon Hehe linliea rrmiie rer ode ee Laradsros irs healed ad bt ee x eT, 26 % «est d’ot vient le bois d’aloes, que les Arabes et celui du sandal, qui s’y trouve en erand quantité,” + ‘‘In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, or abuse, much less kill.” { ‘The pagoda thrush is estee sits perched on the sacred p song.” § Birds of paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India, and ‘‘ the strength of the nutmeg so intoxicates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth.” | ‘Phe spicits of the martyrs Ww —Gibbon, vol. ix. p Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, LALLA ROOKH. $$ Of land and wave, whose fate,—in bondage thrown like her own ! Wor their weak loveliness—is On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine ;— While on the other, latticed lightly in With odoriferous woods of Comorin,* Fach brilliant bird that wings the aix is seen ;— Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree In the warm isles of India’s sunny sea; Mecca’s blue sacred pigeon, and the thrt Of Hindostan,£ whose holy warblings gush At evening from the tall pagoda’s top ;— hose golden birds that, in the spice time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food ish 5 Whose scent hath lured them o’er the summer flood ;§ And those that under Araby’s soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ;-— In short, all rare and beauteous things that fy Through the pure element here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds|] that divell Tn Eden’s radiant fields of asphodel! So on, through scenes past all imagining,— More like the luxuries of that impious king, 7 Whom Death’s dark Angel, with his lightning torch, Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure’s orch, ‘han the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent ‘Arm’d with Heaven’s sword for man’s enfranchisement— Young Azim wander’d, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-boots’ clanking sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! “Tg this then,” thought the youth, “is this the way To free man’s spirit from the deadening sway appellent Oud Comari, which none will affright med. among the first choristers of India, It » 421. -~ and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to enter them agodas, and from thence delivers its melodious ill be lodged in the crops of green birds.”THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Of worldly sloth ;—to teach him, while he lives, To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, And when he dies, to leave his lofty name A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame ? Tt was not so, land of the generous thought And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught ; It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, Thy Freedom nursed her sacred energies; Oh! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow, With which she wreathed her sword, when she would dare Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air Of toil,—of temperance,—of that high, rare, Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe Life, health, and lustre into Freedom’s wreat!i | Who, that surveys this span of earth we press, This speck of life in time’s great wilderness, This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities !— Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare, When he might build him a proud temple there, A name that long shall hallow all its space, And be each purer soul’s high resting-place ! But no—it cannot be, that one whom God Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood’s rod,— A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause With the world’s vulgar pomp ;—no, no—-I see— He thinks me weak—this glare of luxury Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze Of my young soul :—shine on, ’twill stand the blaze!” So thought the youth ;—but even while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide Through every sense. The perfume, breathing round Like a pervading spirit ;—the still sound Of falling waters, lulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng Around the fragrant nilica, and deep Tn its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep ! * And music too—dear music! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much— Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ;— All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel that felt not this: * ““My pundits assure me that the plant before us (the nilica) is theiz rephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms,”—Sir IV. Jones. hS wy | | j | | lorry idee need Lane Lepr eral Pe lhe sine resrrertnsRTT ee we eet tober tote Te aL Lh cect es tr eres tate timers et te eka an id, ee eer parm eye | Leeper ener Poe prec narnicwibtrhiribted tamara ta ey pecienerest eee Soares fr a See, Le meeate ta reread i Setldasoniabieardigbineeel meres = on rea c a writers art eter ee 0% ee Eee eens Siananinitads ary a Soak sence Am Rcbsablasursuis feptepiaetetpadhgieg Leb itenrnbsrup etm nanected phrhae tht ear ictiee femntd ae eres ats stoke ee eee Sraker shee tettsetetin uae eet Tt s Watieuiteii et aed LALLA ROOKH. Soften’d he sunk upon a couch, and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid s— He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid, ‘And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, They sat and look’d into each other’s eyes, Silent and happy—as if God had given Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven { “Oh, my loved mistress ! whose enchantments still Aye with me, round me, wander where I will— It is for thee, for thee alone I seek The paths of glory—to light up thy check With warm approval—in that gentle look ‘o read my praise as in an angel's book, And think all toils rewarded, when from thee I gain a smile, worth immortality ! How shall I bear the moment when restored To that young heart where I alone am lord, Though of such bliss unworthy,—since the best Alone deserve to be the happiest !— When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, ‘And find those tears warm as when last they started, Those sacred kisses pure a8 when we parted ! Oh, my own life !—why should a single day A moment keep me from those arms away ie While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links mo the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him toward the sound, and, far away Through a long vista, sparkling with the play Of countless lamps,—like the rich track which day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us; So long the path, its light so tremulous : He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain’d together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers ;— And some disporting round, unlink’d and free, Who seem’d to mock their sisters’ slavery, And round and round them still, in wheeling flight Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; While others walk’d, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still |THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vio With Faney’s pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! A while they dance before him, then divide, Breaking, like rosy clouds at eventide Around the rich pavilion of the sun,— Till silently dispersing, one by one, Through many a path that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, And but one trembling nymph remains behind,— Beck’ning them back in vain, for they are gone, And she is left in all that light alone; No veil to curtain o’er her beauteous brow, In its young bashfulness more beauteous now; But a light, golden chain-work round her hair, Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear, From which, on either side, gracefully hung A golden amulet, in th’ Arab tongue, Engraven o’er with some immortal line From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which, once or twice, she touch’d with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul She saw through all his features calm’d her fear, And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came ;—then sat her down Upon a musnud’s* edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of Isfahan,+ Touch’d a preluding strain, and thus began :— “ There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s f stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song. That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think—lIs the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? * Musnuds are cushioned seats reserved for persons of distinction. + The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different couutries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode.of Irak, &e. i eh ¢t A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar. ar ts TALLA ROOKH. d Bridegroom—hist ! P’ve seen to-night What angels know not of—so foul a sight, mayst thou see So horrible—oh ! never What there lies hid from all but hell and me! But I must hence—of, off—I am not thine, Nor Heaven’s, nor Love’s, nor aught that is divine— Hold me not—ha |__thinkst thou the fiends that sever Hearts cannot sunder hands ?—thus, then—for ever Wee which madness lends the weak, and, with a shriek,— And the Veil’ With all that strength She flung away his arm ; Whose sound, though he should linger out more years Than wretch e’er told, can never leave his ears,— Flew up through that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night ‘Across the sun, and soon was out of sight! Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gaiety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, without knowing why, » sorb of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have been just such a youth as Feramorz; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often, like the sunny apples of Istkahar, is all sweetness on one side, and all bitterness on the other. As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placmg ‘++ in an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had com- mitted it with a trembling hand to the stream, and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was all curiosity ;—when one of her attendants, who had Jived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent, that often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) informed the Princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their sate return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous ; but if ib went shining down the stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was con- sidered as certain. Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than once looked back to observe how the young Hindoo’s lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for the first time, felt that shade ofTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. 39 melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden’s heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror 3 nor was it till she heard the lute of Feramorz touched lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, and, after a few unheard remarks from Fadladeen upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a princess, everything was arranged as on the preceding evening, and all listened with eager- ness, while the story was thus continued :— Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, Where all was waste and silent yesterday ? This City of War which, in a few short hours, Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers Of him who, in the twinkling of a star, Built the high-pillar’d halls of Chilminar,* Had conjured up, far as the eye can see, This world of tents and domes and sun-bright armoury !— Princely pavilions, screen’d by many a fold Of crimson cloth, and topp’d with balls of gold ;— Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun, Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun; And camels, tufted o’er with Yemen’s shells, Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells! But yester-eve, so motionless around, So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound But the far torrent, or the locust-bird,f Hunting among the thickets, could be heard ;— Yet hark! what discords now of every kind, Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind ! The neigh of cavalry ;—the tinkling throngs Of laden camels and their drivers’ songs ;— Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ;— War-music, bursting out from time to time With gong and tymbalon’s tremendous chime ; — Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute, The mellow breathings of some horn or flute, That far off, broken by the eagle note Of th’ Abyssinian trumpet,t swell and float! * The edifices of Chilminar and Baalbec are supposed to have been built by the genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam. { A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried. { ‘‘This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Nesser Cano, which signifies the Note of the Eagle.” tatthgeh-hasbcieh-debet-delerace ated ett et eer ey eda Leiner tery treet herd pia ies vt hal 5 oi os peicex: a me Char erites4 o oy nt aa S Rees Aibhptkddustamieaicn bo A a Pty one tiles ated tena thasitriate Tear ten ee ey Pree etre ter br whe Ei eee ete seers et ene ibubibu uel treet ttre reer eaten ts bbe bebhieenrans por ephne trated eet he ied 7 ut 1 “heeene, te) aa SG ait Tadcetaat bttabeieesbtieach-jaa roe vers oS eS Lee LALLA ROOKH. Who leads this mighty army ?—ask ye “ who?” And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, The Night and Shadow,* over yonder tent !— It is the Caliph’s glorious armament. Roused in his palace by the dread alarms, That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd Defiance fierce at Islam and the world ;— Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind The veils of his bright palace calm reclined, Yet brook’d he not such blasphemy should stain, Thus unrevenged the evening of his reign, But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave} To conquer or to perish, once more gave His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, And with an army nursed in victories, Here stands to crush the rebels that o’errun His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun. Ne’er did the march of Mahadi display Such pomp before ;—not even when on his way To Mecca’s temple, when both land and sea Were spoil’d to feed the pilgrim’s luxury ; § When round him, ’mid the burning sands, he saw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, - And cool’d his thirsty lip, beneath the glow Of Mecca’s sun, with urns of Persian snow :— Nor e’er did armament more grand than that Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. Tirst in the van, the People of the Rock,|| On their light mountain steeds of royal stock ; {] Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see The flashing of their swords’ rich marquetry ;*+*— Men from the regions near the Volga’s mouth Mix’d with the rude, black archers of the South ; And Indian lancers, in white turban’d ranks From the far Sinde, or Attock’s sacred banks, * «The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of Abas were cal'ed, allegorically, ‘The Night and The Shadow.’” + The Mohammedan religion, t ‘“‘The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who is buried at Cas- bin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter he will ask him if he dare swear by the Holy Grave.” 2 shed, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of dinars of gold. ; \| ane inhabitants of Hejaz, or Arabia Petrzea, called ‘The People of the Rock.’ ” ‘‘Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written yenealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their ovigin from King Solomon’s steeds.” ** «Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in gold ot silver, ov in marquetry with small gems.” Toe ht atTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,* And many a mace-arm’d Moor and Mid-Sea Islander. Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare’s school, was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, Round the white standard of th’ Impostor throng’d, Beside his thousands of Believers,—blind, Burning, and headlong as the Samiel wind,— Many who felt, and more who fear’d to feel The bloody Islamite’s converting steel, Flock’d to his banner :—Chiefs of the Uzbek race, Waving their heron crests with martial grace ; + Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth From the aromatic pastures of the North; Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,f—and those Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred, Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent’s bed, But none, of all who own’d the chief’s command Rush’d to that battle-field with bolder hand Or sterner hate than Iran’s outlaw’d men, Her Worshippers of Fire $—all panting then For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn’d, Her throne usurp’d, and her bright shrines o’erturn'd, From Yezd’s|| eternal Mansion of the Fire, Where aged saints in dreams of heayen expire; From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame That burn into the Caspian, {] fierce they came, Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance triumph’d, and their tyrants bled ! Such was the wild and miscellaneous host That high in air their motley banners toss’d * Azab or Saba. 7 ‘‘The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron’s feathers in their turbans.” { ‘‘In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous in Khorassan they find tur- quoises.”’ : § The Ghehers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia who adhere i to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home or forced to be- come wanderers abroad. : ‘ : || “‘Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain.” @{ ‘When the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the naphtha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible ” _ bs viepintshne Ce diett entire t See rt ik eorere A stadt bad eae ters lathes aeLALLA ROOK, Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent Upon that glittering veil, where’er it went, That beacon through the battle’s stormy flood, That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood! Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze, Smoke up to heayen—hot as that crimson haze By which the prostrate caravan is awed In the red desert when the wind’s abroad! “On, Swords of God!” the panting Caliph calis,— “Thrones for the living—heaven for him who falls }”— “On, brave avengers, on,” Mokanna cries, «And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies !” Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day — They clash—they strive—the Caliph’s troops give way! Mokanna’s self plucks the black banner down, And now the orient world’s imperial crown Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout ! Some hand hath check’d the flying Moslems’ rout, And now they turn—they rally—at their head A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, The Champions of the Faith through Beder’s vale,)* Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Muarns on the fierce pursuers’ blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back, While hope and courage kindle in his track, And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks ! In vain Mokanna, ’midst the general flight, Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky !— : In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of all the great arch-enemy ! The panic spreads—“ A miracle !” throughout The Moslem ranks, “ A miracle!” they shout, All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; ' And every sword, true as o’er billows dim i The needle tracks the load-star, following him ! See ie ea Cee Centon eels a Setchtedebtabthieretabatricd Lethal pi eddbubaeaa cid teat A hoe oer Lnlaaaillipa, . Seah Sete eerie ri Licleidelebaslabeal dubs pea enes! reed Coe bphhniemrmpaceateate} i dacqeaeeeeeyan Maren ipa ae Mera rtd * “Tn the great victory gained by Mohammed at Beder, he was as- sisted by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Hia- ! mam.” Eee pea mtb Mabtabina. aren alladntcmad ace aha Midd ec rhea Tae “5 oe ne ~. “hoes rnTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Right towards Mokanna, now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst Irom weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o’er him, the mightiest and the worst ! But vain his speed—though, in that hour of bloed, Had all God’s seraphs round Mokanna stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, Mokanna’s soul would have defied them all i Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even him along ; In vain he struggles ’mid the wedged array Of flying thousands,—he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows In this forced flight is—murdering, as he goes! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent’s might Surprises in some parch’d ravine at night Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay ! “ Alla il Alla! ”—the glad shout renew— “ Alla Akbar!” *—the Caliph’s in Merou. Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets ; + The Swords of God hath triumph’d—on his throne Your Caliph sits, and the Veil’d Chief hath flown. Who does not envy that young warrior now, To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, In all the graceful g -atitude of power, For his throne’s safety in that perilous hour! Who doth not wonder, when, amidst th’ acclaim Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name— *Mid all those holier harmonies of fame Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, Like music round a planet as it rolls !— He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom Hung o’er his heart no triumphs can illume ;— Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze Though glory’s light may play, in vain it plays ! Yes, wretched Azim! thine is such a grief, Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, Or warm, or brighten,—like that Syrian Lake = * The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. ‘Alla Achar!” says Ockley, “mesys God is most mighty.” + “The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions,” : { The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable lifs-beptrtedede et lrepas a “ Seppe ee peepicetts eee eee Pree eae oat Mkt bateacseal Seah bt oa das Ee neces art's ao pert pebsel papi airedad fu Lory te peta a arbwiiet ot anes Denes etn pean Her: oes pAlpiiahlihabs Dae pe ye yo ier Cees Sehdareenierdemit pabiokebe Leer Se ee ee ee repost bus Teateenteat Saeco er Se uk dike tia ta ees ts Hinuaroesetie we Cee hits bdsest abet tae acer cee ” 44 LALLA ROOKH, Upon whose surface morn and summer shed Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead !— Hearts there have been o’er which this weight of woe Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow ; But thine, lost youth ! was sudden—over thee Tt broke at once, when all seem’d ecstasy ; When Hope look’d up, and saw the gloomy past Melt into splendour, and bliss dawn at last— Twas then, even then, o’er joys so freshly blown, This mortal blight of misery came down ; Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang, Each fix’d and chill’d into a lasting pang! One sole desire, one passion now remains, T'o keep life’s fever still within his veins, Vengeance !—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast O’er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. For this, when rumours reach’d him in his flight Far, far away, after that fatal night,— Rumours of armies, thronging to th’ attack Of the Veil’d Chief,—for this he wing’d him back, Fleet as the vulture speeds of flags unfurl'd, And came when all seem’d lost, and wildly hurl’d Himself into the scale, and saved a world! For this he still lives on, careless of all The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; For this alone exists—like lightning-fire To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire! But safe as yet that spirit of evil lives; With a small band of desperate fugitives, The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven, He gain’d Merou—breathed a short curse of blood (’er his lost throne—then pass'd the Jihon’s flood,* And gathering all whose madness of belief +1] saw a saviour in their down-fallen Chief, Raised the white banner within Neksheb’s gates, And there, untamed, th’ aproaching conqueror waits. Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One, not for love—not for her beauty’s light— * The ancient Oxus. } A city of Transoxiania, Were check’d—like the fount-drops, frozen as they start iTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From th’ Alma tree and dies, while overhead ‘To-day’s young flower is springing in its stead ! * No, not for love—the deepest damn’d must be Touch’d with heaven’s glory, ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! But no, she is his victim :—there lie all Her charms for him—charms that can never pall, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her, To work an angel's ruin,—to behold As white a page as Virtue e’er unroll’d Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll Of damning sins, seal’d with a burning soul— This is his triumph; this the joy accurst, That ranks him among demons all but first ! This gives the victim that before him lies Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, A light like that with which hell-fire illumes The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes! Renee tbe ie Pegreta ni Ye hee eS bre Tisbeeint yer pta in hbrs But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need All the deep daringness of thought and deed With which the Divest have gifted him—for mark, Over yon plains, which night had else made dark, Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights That spangle India’s fields on showery nights, t Far as their formidable gleams they shed, The mighty tents of the beleagurer spread» Glimmering along th’ horizon’s dusky line, And thence in nearer circles, till they shine ) Among the founts and groves, o’er which the town In all its arm’d magnificence looks down. Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil’d, beset, Not less than myriads dare to front him yet ;— That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, Eyen thus a match for myriads such as they ! “Oh for a sweep of that dark angel’s wing, Who brush’d the thousands of th’ Assyrian king $ To darkness in a moment, that I might People hell’s chambers with yon host to-night ! * “*You never can cast your eyes on this tree but you mect there either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossoms drop underneath on the ground, others tome forth in their stead.” + The demons of the Persian mythology. t Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy season. § ‘‘Sennacherib, caled by the orientals King of Moussal.”ea eae Be ieee Care Se ei Sit uk alee bad LALLA ROOKH. But come what may, let who will grasp the throne, Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan 5 Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King— Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring With victims’ shrieks and howlings of the slave,— Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave!” Thus to himself—but to the scanty train Sti]] left around him, a far different strain :— «“ Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown I bear from heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown Nor shadow of earth eclipse; before whose gems The paly pomp of this world’s diadems, The crown of Gerashid, the pillar’d throne Of Parviz,* and the heron crest that shone,t Magnificent, o’er Ali’s beauteous eyes,£ Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : Warriors, rejoice—the port, to which we ’ve pass’ O’er destiny’s dark wave, beams out at last! Victory ’s our own—tis written in that Book Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, That Islam’s sceptre shall beneath the power Of her great foe fall broken in that hour When the moon’s mighty orb, before all eyes, From Neksheb’s Holy Well portentously shall rise ! Now turn and see !” Sioiteeetecenehen ar peretnans +e oe eh coy ts re Bat 2 a He ae Pe a kf ens 1 PES Aan must ee They turn’d, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendour all around them broke, And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its ight ound the rich city and the plain for miles,$— Flinging such radiance o’er the gilded tiles Of many a dome and fair-roof’d imaret, As autumn suns shed round them when they set! Instant from all who saw th’ illusive sign, ‘A murmur broke—* Miraculous !| divine 1 The Gheber bow’d, thinking his idol Star Had waked, and burst impatient through the bar Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! aon ot eter te terse henna seo ate ee er erat one eterna oa gonoe es i. fea spaslon bento ish pbb eatsy e-hetal Bar ps pear etaneiee Pasion Haury ey ie: * Chosroes. + “The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban.”—From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas’s tomb. t “The beauty of Ali’s eyes was so remarkable that, whenever the Per- sians would describe anything as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, or the eyes of Ali.” - § “Il amusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekhscheb en faisant sortir toutes les nuits du fonds dun puits un corps lumineux sem- blable & la lune, qui portoit sa lumiere jusqu’a la distance de plusieurs ee Fience he was called Sazendéh Mah, or the Moon- maker.THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, While he of Moussa’s creed saw in that ray The glorious Light which, in his freedom’s day, Had rested on the Ark,* and now again Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain | “To victory !”” is at once the ery of all— Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call; But instant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea, they speed their course Right on into the Moslems’ mighty force. The watchmen of the camp,—who, in their rounds, Had paused, and even forgot the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the night,+ To gaze upon that supernatural light,— Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, And in a death-groan give their last alarm. “On for the lamps that light yon lofty secreen,t Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean; There rests the Caliph—speed—one lucky lance May now achieve mankind’s deliverance ! ” Desperate the die—such as they only east Who venture for a world, and stake their last. But Fate’s no longer with him—blade for blade Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shade, And as the clash is heard, new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon,§ To the shrill timbrel’s summons, till, at length, The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength, ind back to Neksheb’s gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train; Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sail Of some toss’d vessel, on a stormy night, Catching the tempest’s momentary light ! And hath not this brought the proud spirit low ? Nor dash’d his brow, nor check’d his daring? No, Though half the wretches whom at night he led To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead, Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest ;— And they believe him !—oh, the lover may * The Shechinah, called Sakinat in the Koran; vide Sale. t ‘The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of music as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums.” f ‘‘The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents,” § ‘‘ From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a celebrated per err rerSaree eeroieenmer ety es rod eee er te Hye - eabdabhael Yohei one rem, Pd Lal Me Alpadehiedalodetcbaneil es ey earesedies fered ra aw “ete aoe meser eet here rhea REE S a Pea OL pe Ot, ren brent ee bic raba ba becca heh erm enero a - Retr medida drt rete Lal aul meen * A custom, still subsisting Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgi now make a statue of earth in shape of a gir the Betrothed ST . ttre Mier he peedeectes Clee Prestditran a be LALLA ROOKH. Distrust that look which steals his soul away ! The babe may cease to think that it can play With heaven’s rainbow ;—alchymists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out, But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. And well th’ Impostor knew all lures and arts That Lucifer e’er taught to tangle hearts; Nor, ’mid these last bold workings of his plot Against men’s souls, is Zelica forgot. lll-fated Zelica! had reason been Awake through half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had come At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. But ’twas not so—a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o’er th’ intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight : And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke, As through some dull voleano’s veil of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, Which shew the fire’s still busy at its heart; Yet was she mostly wrapp’d in sudden gloom,— Not such as Azim’s, brooding o’er its doom, And calm without, as is the brow of death, While busy worms are gnawing underneath | But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill, The cold, pale victim of her torturer’s will. Again, as in Merou, he had her deck’d Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; And led her glittering forth before the eyes Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce Nile, when, deck’d in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide ! * And while the wretched maid hung down her head, And stood, as one just risen from the dead, Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell Possess’d her now,—and from that darken’d trance Should dawn ere long their Faith’s deliverance. at this day, seems to me to prove that the n to the god of the Nile; for they 1, to which they give the name of Bride, and throw it into the river.”’—Savary.THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, Her soul was roused, and words of wildness came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heaven’s signals in her flashing eyes, And call her shrieks the language of the skies! But vain at length his arts—despair is seen Gathering around; and famine comes to glean All that the sword had left unreap’d :—in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before, And horrible as new ;*—javelins. that fly Enwreathed with smoky flames through the dark sky, And red-hot globes that, opening as they mount, Discharge, as from a kindled naphtha fount, Showers of consuming fire o’er all below; Looking, as through th’ illumined night they go, Like those wild birds + that by the Magians oft, At festivals of fire, were sent aloft Into the air, with blazing faggots tied To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide | All night, the groans of wretches who expire In agony beneath these darts of fire Ring through the city—while, descending o’er Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore ; — Tts lone bazaars, with their bright cloth of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll’d ;— Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets Now gush with blood ;—and its tall minarets, That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, unhallow’d by a prayer ;— O’er each in turn the terrible flame-bolts fall, And death and conflagration throughout all The desolate city hold high festival ! Mokanna sees the world is his no more ;— One sting at parting, and his grasp is o’er. “What! drooping now ?”—thus, with unblushing cheek, He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, * The Greek fire, which was occasionally Ient by the Emperors to thciz allies, + ‘‘At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Sezé, they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumina- tion; and as these terrified creatures naturally fied to the wood for shelter, it is casy to conceive the conflagiations they produced.” reer s : hart: red ep tetsrosTe feaeee Slee ns oe eee ere art eet ees os poy eerel ret prt roe Let Mind lsunadbchbaachantihgipedisaoidioeead PE erent ee om Q oo met pied debe tit ea ee te ok renee + sk eee Pe er ope ener baie Leary DTH at oe eT cuneteeee . Lee peepee met See ee hd ded said labels Majed ethers awe . bettpbhane betshalubceta chal ptystombarecrte sesh Bigg rere PO tel lo Te Wee erin ki : oer ied eer p LALLA ROOKH. OF all those famish’d slaves around him lying, And by the light of blazing temples dying ;— «What! drooping now ?—now, when at length we presa Home o’er the very threshold of success ; When Alla from our ranks hath thinn’d away . Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray Of favour from us, and we stand at length Heirs of his light and children of his strength, The chosen few who shall survive the fall Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all! Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, All faith in him who was your light, your star! Have you forgot the eye of glory, hi Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither ? Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now All earth shall feel th’ unveiling of this brow! To-night—yes, sainted men ! this very night, I bid you all to a fair festal rite, Where,—having deep refresh’d each weary limb With viands such as feast heaven’s cherubim, And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim, With that pure wine the dark-eyed maids above Keep, seal’d with precious musk, for those they love, *—~ I will myself uncurtain in your sight The wonders of this brow’s ineffable light ; Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse Yon myriads, howling through the universe ! % Eager they listen—while each accent darts New life into their chill’d and hope-sick hearts ;— Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! Wildly they point their lances to the light Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout, “ To-night !” “To-night,” their chief re-echocs in a voice Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice ! Deluded victims—never hath this earth Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth } Tere, to the few whose iron frames had stood. This racking waste of famine and of blood, Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout Of triumph like a maniac’s laugh broke out;— There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, Danced, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, % “Mhe righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed; the seal whereof shall be musk.”-—Koran, chap. ixxxiii. BO ag oe rgTHE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, Among the dead and dying strew’d around ;— While some pale wretch look’d on, and from his wound Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, In ghastly transport waved it o’er his head! ‘Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pause Had follow’d the long shouts, the wild applause, That lately from those royal gardens burst, Where the veil’d demon held his feast accurss, When Zelica—alas, poor ruin’d heart, In every horror doom’d to bear its part !— Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, | Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave Compass’d him round, and, ere he could repeat His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! | Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear, A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling, and brought reason back | Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seem’d tranquil—even the foe had ceased, As if aware of that demoniac feast, | His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look’d red, | | | : ‘Twas but some distant conflagration’s spread. But hark !—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone ! "Tis her Tormentor’s laugh—and now, a groan, A long death-groan comes with it—can this be The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? She enters—Holy Alla, what a sight Was there before her! By the glimmering light Of the pale dawn, mix’d with the flare of brands That round lay burning, dropp’d from lifeless hands, She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread, Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead,— The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff’d, All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught? Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, With their swoln heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought but saw no mercy there; As if they felt, though poison rack’d them through, Remorse the deadlier torment of the two! While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasp’d ;—but as they died, Look’d horrible vengeance with their eyes’ last strain And clench’d the slackening hand at him in vain, eens a Lote Gianatehene’ Sd ered Lier ee Pena Paria Eateraae oe th ae aed le be tapes nto tet hy aepenes prerperner. wi Prrncnereee per" paca ns neh aLALLA ROOKH, Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, The stony look of horror and despair, Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their souls’ tormentor to the last ;— Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now raised, Shew’d them, as in death’s agony they gazed, Not the long-promised light, the brow whose beaming Was to come forth, all-conquering, all-redeeming, But features horribler than hell e’er traced On its own brood ;—no Demon of the Waste,* : No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in the light a Of the blest sun, e’er blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those Th’ Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows— “ There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, your Star-— Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? Swear that the burning death ye feel within Ts but the trance with which heaven’s joys begin ; That this foul visage, foul as e’er disgraced Even monstrous man, is-—after God’s own taste ; And that—but see !—ere I have half-way said My greetings through, th’ uncourteous souls are fled. Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die, If Eblis loves you half so well as L— Ha, my young bride !—'tis well—take thou thy seat ; Nay, come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet The dead before ?—they graced our wedding, sweet ; And these, my guests to-night, have brimm’'d so true Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too. But—how is this ?—all empty? all drunk up? Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, : Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains, Enough to warm a gentle Priestess’ veins ; Here, drink—and should thy lover's conquering arms Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, And I’ll forgive my haughty rival’s bliss ! Tt fd rors Iyeeticbestecnt rs a eet prepares a ae - 3 a bike ba Aa hasan lel Sab hes ietlb cet onan Dnae eae te : M " ory Pr sbpieet oq patent rok ot 20, echenoarencenam A Sete ee “Bor me—I too must die—but not like these Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, With all death’s grimness added to it own, SPOR OMIA anAbarennariemwanuoni aie duu cemile Lamon Dp bssh ere perimeter bes) tie betenarby otra ariskene ae ee i i pauaed oe Leet ee ere Cebit Ve asiee wasp rene Kf * “The Afehauns believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of : their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon whom they call the Gholee | Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying they are wild as the Demon of the Waste.” behtd-Foteh eed hoe] Sent behets et Gama ee eee oewees * bah tne. at i A hod ee ue THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN, es ~escvprncnanenanasn eee cise , EOE SESE Gyhi eae eee e tt, oh Cerent And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes Of slaves, exclaiming, ‘There his godship lies ! No, cursed race, since first my love drew breath, They’ve been my dupes, and shall be, even in death. Thou seest yon cistern in the shade,—‘tis fill’d With burning drugs, for this last hour distill’d ;— ‘There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame— Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame !|— There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. So shall my votaries, wheresoe’er they rave, Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave :— But I’ve but vanish’d from this earth a while, To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile ! So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knayes shall minister, and fools shall kneel ; Where Faith may mutter o’er her mystic spell, Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell The sail he spreads for heaven with blasts for hell ! So shall my banner through long ages be The rallying sign of fraud anc anarchy ;— Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna’s name, And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, Shall walk abroad in all the storm y strife, And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life! But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall— Why, let it shake—thus I can brave them all. No trace of me shall greet them when they come, And I can trust thy faith, for—thou’lt be dumb, Now mark how readily a wretch like me In one bold plunge commences Deity !”— ee remedetcied eae rer OV keecustinee sh wattes hte pee maar ares huneneeeean keen ae e Sorters Pesta He sprung, and sunk as the last words were gaid-~- Quick closed the burning waters o’er his head, | And Zelica was left—within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing; if The only wretched one, still cursed with breath, Tn all that frightful wilderness of death ! More like some bloodless ghost,—such as, they tell, In the lone Cities of the Silerit * dwell, nd there, unseen of all but Alla, sit Each by its own pale carcase, watching it, * But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirg Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. * “They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they some- times call by the poeticil name of Citics of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit cach at the head of his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes.”on . a ae hes to hashed ekiobadecd . Crees " Ps ppc hres prereset Cag Spee eee bib abshavalbsa nbc eded 2: > Sera Pptony cates i pcerore oeteewetet iene tee, 1 prothieanentorheun Lesiabaneieiodss Does Miers rere pen Ss eal Bada deter et a cars 54 LALLA ROOKE, Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent; And now the scorpion’s shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas, and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,— All speak th’ impatient Islamites’ intent "No try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastion’d wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First in impatience and in toil is he, The burning Azim—ch! could he but-see That monster once alive within his grasp, Not the gaunt lion’s hug, nor boa's clasp, Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace With the fell heartiness of hate’s embrace! Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls; Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls, But still no breach—“ Once more, one mighty swing Of all your beams, together thundering !” Mhere-—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult— “ Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult Right on that spot, and Neksheb is our own eo Tis done—the battlements come crashing down, And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two, Yawning like some old crater rent anew, Shews the dim, desolate city smoking through ! But strange! no signs of life—nought living seen Above, below—what can this stillness mean ? A minute’s pause suspends all hearts and eyes-— “In through the breach,” impetuous Azim cries; But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile Tn this blank stillness, checks tne troops a while.— Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced Forth from the ruin’d walls; and, as there glanced A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil !—“’Tis he, ‘tis he, Mokanna, and alone!” they shout around ; Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground— “Mine, Holy Caliph! mine,” he cries, “the task Mo crush yon daring wretch—’tis all I ask.” Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comes, till they are near; Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim’s spear, And, casting off the veil in falling, shews— Oh !—’tis his Zelica’s life-blood that flows ! “T meant not Azim,” soothingly she said, As on his trembling arm she lean’d her head,THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN. And, looking in his face, saw anguish there Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear-— at Though death with thee thus tasted is a bliss Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know How oft I’ve pray’d to God I might die so! But the fiend’s venom was too scant and slow : To linger on were maddening—and I thought If once that veil—nay, look not on it—caught The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. But this is sweeter—oh ! believe me, yes— I would not change this sad, but dear caress. This death within thy arms I would not give For the most smiling life the happiest live ! All that stood dark and drear before the eye Of my stray’d soul is passing swiftly by ; A light comes o’er me from those looks of love, Like the first dawn of mercy from above; And if thy lips but tell me I’m forgiven, Angels will echo the blest words in heave:! But live, my Azim ;—oh ! to call thee mine Thus once again! my Azim—dream divine ! Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee Morning and night before that Deity To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain, As thine are, Azim, never breathed in vain, — And pray that He may pardon her,—may take Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, And, nought remembering but her love to thee Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! Go to those happy fields where first we twined Our youthful hearts together—every wind That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flowers, Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours Back to thy soul, and thou mayst feel again Hor thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies To heaven upon the morning’s sunshine, rise Vith all love’s earliest ardour to the skies! And should they—but alas !- my senses fail— Oh for one minute !—should thy prayers prevail— If pardon’d sculs may from that World of Bliss Reveal their joy to those they love in this,— I’ll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell- © Heaven !—I die—dear love! fareweil, fareweil ! 2 i meant not thow shouldst have the pain of this; - ~ oo-4. paetataty Stes et men om Et evry as iaeberees pape sorbitan eStart pina, ite we eeerion peecina maraeFeouk eater bt tide aoe Seen Ce abc baaae Pye reap aneciaeneanseg ” POE OEY a peep enya a ea eer re epee ere cs eee eee See ee ic keke ee eee ites Abhrcm tebe tae bree bab = uct itwie LALLA ROOKE, Time fleeted—years on years had pass’d away, And few of those who, on that mournful day, Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden’s death, and the youth’s agony, Were living still—when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift Amoo’s transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, Vor the last time knelt down—and, though the shade Of death hung darkening over him, there play’d A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek That brighten’d even death—like the last streak Of intense glory on th’ horizon’s brim, When night o’er all the rest hangs chill and dim,— This soul had seen a vision while he slept ; She for whose spirit he had pray’d and wept So many years, had come to him, all drest In angel smiles, and told him she was blest! For this the old man breathed his thanks, and died. And there, upon the banks of that loved tide, He and his Zelica sleep side by side. The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear Fadladeen’s criticisms upon it. A serics of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned cham- berlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers sta- tioned, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the royal table, had, by some cruel irregularity, failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible, In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- lain, * had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces—an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquis- itely old as to have been used under the Hmperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mohammed's favourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold, with other loy- al and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only be found in * This old porcelain is found in digging, and “if it is esteemed, it is not because it has acquired any new degree of beauty in the earth, but because it has retained its ancient beauty; and this alone is of great importance in China, where they give large sums for the smallest vessels which were used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dy- nasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by the Emperors,” (about the year 442.)—Dunn’s Collection of Curious Observations, &e.—a bad translation of some parts of the ‘‘ Lettres Hdifiantes et Curicuses” of the Mis- sionary Jesuits.LALLA ROOKH, 57 the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Seren- dib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose. “In order,” said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, “to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever-—_—“ My good Fadladeen!” exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, “we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will, I have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, vithout any further waste of your valuable erudition.” “If that be all,” replied the critic,—evidently mortified at not being allowed to shew how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him,—‘if that be all that is required, the matter is easily despatched.” He then proceeded to analyse the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi) whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favoured gentleman, with a veil over his face;—a young lady, whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet’s convenience to be sensible or otherwise ;—and a youth, in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. “From such materials,’ said he, “what can be expected ?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberds of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is, that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age, for the laudable pur- pose of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes and expires, This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honour and glory !) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling.” * With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter: it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith’s apron’ converted into a banner, * «Tia lecture de ces fables plaisoit si fort aux Arabes, que, quand Mo- hammed les entretenoit del’ Histoire de l’Ancien Testament, ils les méprisoient, lui disant que celles yue Nasser leur racontoient étoient beaucoup plus belles.” Cette préference attira 4 Nasser la malediction de Mohammed et de tous ses * Se eed ID Sects isc untth Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the royal standard of Persia. a oeey eet rr: peek itdete Ebene tare hotbeietnelei~pt hd aks eemecen sa yr se Ne 28 tym we Ts babaeehidetbtieteloetela i ' ' } he pos ehh reine prs oreMid dubehabs ESS eh let pers marseeeuseneeed es roe eee oat baitlbtisk dabtisedind. bean a ee enna tes eer) ares ween eet near a daustid 3 ba rhea Setrah fetes hited " — 7 rs pee end Bieta: Sm Lie Soe tee Poe nl aces Se et oe ee eo ae i peor peetr ts eee ict rae ee eke es eee er elite ere ert ain SLM eines “ene i 58 LALLA ROOKE. are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable; it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafiz, nor the sen- tentious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its movements, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences, too, in which it indulged were unpardonable ;—for instance, this line, and the poem abounded with such :— “¢ Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.” ‘What critic that can count,’ said Fadladeen, “and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfiuities?” He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep ; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary, therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified candour, thus :—“ Notwithstanding the observa- tions which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man ;—so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking, I hay very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him.” Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a weleome guest in the pavilion,—to one heart, per- haps, too dangerously welcome; but all mention of poctry was, as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for Fadladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies—Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more toler- able to the patient; the ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what Fadladeen said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep; while the self-complacent chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a poet. alla Rookh alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more ag speedily as possible. Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was unlucky. J4 was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi,—‘‘ Many, like me, have viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed for ever !”—that she took occasion, trom the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general, “It is true,” she said, “few poets can imitate that sublime bird,* which flies always in the air. * The huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly aoLALLA ROOKH. 59 da appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain,* last for ever ;—but still there are some, as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short,” continued she, blush- ing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, “it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment, without having a critic for ever, like the Old Man of the Sea, (Sinbad,) upon his back!” Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as t A sudden silence ensued; and L and never touches the earth ;—it is only once in many ages a genius ‘ > a whetstone for his next criticism. the Princess, glancing a look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment. But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant airs, playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict, In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favourite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cashmere, some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated—from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafi compares his mistress’s hair, to the Caémaldta, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented. As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, or of one of those Peris,—those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this night make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one in the air, and never touch the ground. It is looked upon as a bird of happy omen; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a crown.— Richardson. In the terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, ‘‘that he should have the distinction cf two honorary attendants standing beside him, holding fans composed of the feathers of the huma, according to the practice of his family.”—Jfilks’s South of India. THe adds in a note:—‘‘The huma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly he circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the throne of Tippoo Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended to represent this poetical fancy.” * To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions, ficures, &c., on those rocks, which have from thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain.”—Volney. M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some mysterious and important meaning to these inscrip- tions; but Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, ‘‘ who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with any pointed instrument; adding to heir names, and the date of their journeys, some rude figures, which bespeak the hand ofa people but little skilled in the arts.” —Nicbuhr wet adres Debednteaet Perr reeret ares ee: ee een Sbedabvehiasicedes el 3 cierto? peer rit near eel wecineit brrertt tt cs he paca ss lme4 Peetea 2 P - 1 Die 22 SORE eater tine BE SS ae Ae D Lebtebiabdabel fesbbe- bbe ede to pennant Ure cals ba histo he bcs baabieiegt-tebaabgalbanhitelo” 4 yao ie een at Sarit SO hee mye ied bd edit aed chink oan Anbar Peers a Teeth eer rent , ee Ce liest pete ut Mit ithwhefiek el va et rewire wie Set reer concert ot eco e pubes bow wit or sie feet) RRA brat oUt Fon Ne "Ki Bic om ow iw 2 teenie et hd Se eri penanean Lorie ae er Sheff de rb eiriieh ated =u cues Pe pubst tabderintend aco ele 60 of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing, said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a story of a Peri, which, if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. “It is,” said he, with an appealing look to Fadladeen, “in a lighter and humbler strain than the other;” then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began :~ LALLA ROOKH. PARADISE AND THE PERI, OnzE morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; And as she listen’d to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e’er have lost that glorious place | “ Tow happy,” exclaim’d this child of air, “Are the holy spirits who wander there, "Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all! Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, Vith its plain-tree Isle reflected clear,* And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray,+ Yet—oh, ’tis only the blest can say How the waters of heaven outshine them all} Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all !”’ The glorious Angel, who was keeping The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping; And, as he nearer drew and listen’d To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten’d Within his eyelids, like the spray Krom Hden’s fountain, when it lies * “Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere.” + “The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibot has abundance of gold in iis sands.” —Pinkerton.PARADISE AND THE PERI On the blue flower, which—Brahmins say—— Blooms no where but in Paradise! “ Nymph of a fair but erring line!” Gently he said—“ One hope is thine. ‘Tis written in the Book of Fate, Lhe Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this eternal gate Lhe gift that is most dear to Heaven / Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin;— "Tis sweet to let the pardon’d in!” Rapidly as comets run To th’ embraces of the sun :— Fleeter than the starry brands Flung at night from angel-hands* At those dark and daring sprites, Who would climb th’ empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the Peri flies, And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning’s eyes, Hung hovering o’er our world’s expanse But whither shall the spirit go To find this gift for Heaven ?—“ I know The wealth,” she cries, “of every urn, In which unnumber’d rubies burn, Beneath the pillars of Chilminar oes I know where the Isles of Perfume are Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright Araby; t+— I know, too, where the Genii hid The jewell’d cup of their king Jamshid,§ With life’s elixir sparkling high— But gifts like these are not for the sky. Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Alla’s wonderful throne ? And the drops of life—oh ! what would they }e In the boundless deep of eternity?” While thus she mused, her pinions fann’d The air of that sweet Indian land, * «The Mohammedans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands where. with the good angels drive away the bad when they approach too neur the empyreum or verge of the heavens.” ¢ ‘*The Forty Pillars—so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the edifices at Baalbec, were built by Gemi, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns inimense treasures, which stiil remain there.” t The Isles of Panchaia. § ‘The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foun dations of Persepolis.”~ ° edaicets tara | Ahbsetals ot = alee ee : Pre Snes: Gomer bone rari = Se ae ee eee Cn eet eet er eee bata daled hifi l-debabhietd Spray Vora rin im hei e: eptra a PS [ide sehrtredd tah fey de aii telon ee eee tr te Cea Pilea a” —- : . } “i wher 62 LALLA ROOKH. Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads O’er coral banks and amber beds; Whose mountains, pregnant by the beara Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; Whose sandal groves and. bowers of spice Might be a Peri’s Paradise ! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood—the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwatted from the innocent flowers ! Land of the Sun! what foot invades Thy pagods and thy pillar’d shades— Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousands thrones? "Tis he of Gazna *—fierce in wrath He comes, and India’s diadems Lie scatter’d in his ruinous path.— His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana ; + Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane, he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters! Downward the Peri turns her gaze, And, through the war-field’s bloody haze, Beholds a youthful warrior stand, Alone, beside his native river,— The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quiver. “Live,” said the Conqueror, “live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear!” Silent that youthful warrior stood— | Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country’s blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, | For answer, to th’ invader’s heart. | * «Mahmoud of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in the beginning | of the eleventh century.” + “It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmoud was so magnificent, that he kept four hundred greyhounds and bloodhounds, each of which were a collar set with jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls.”PARADISE AND THE PERI. False flew the shaft, though pointed well; The tyrant lived, the hero fell !— Yet mark’d the Peri where he‘lay, And when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray Of morning light, she caught the last— Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled ! “ Be this,” she cried, as she wing’d her flight “My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. | Though foul are the drops that oft distill On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is, It would not stain the purest rill, That sparkles among the bowers of bliss | Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, ae Te A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, Tis the last libation Liberty draws 4 “Sweet,” said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, “ Sweet is our welcome of the brave Who die thus for their native land.— But see—alas !—the crystal bar Of Eden moyes not—holier far Than even this drop the boon must be That opes the gates of heaven for thee |” o Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among Atric’s Lunar Mountains,* Far to the south, the Peri lighted ; 3 From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause. And sleek’d her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth Ts hidden from the sons of earth, Deep in those solitary woods, Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, And hail the new-born Giant’s smile | + Thence, over Egypt’s palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of kings :f The exiled Spirit sighing roves; 63 * «The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lune of antiquity, at the foot; of which the Nile is supposed to arise.” + ‘The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant.” { Vide Perry’s ‘‘ View of the Levant,” for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of Upper Egypt. | | io hibtelbiveceet cchihe ere es eats as ba ees iets eee ra Se raed Pre ee Pe ee a wert tatis bemrbonde rears ttycr a br eitats reer rey pecan mpeycieceriernpenrte ren rabies oat aces carps ayey eps ty Ronitatanaoies Kehjicda oes the | Metcbahiats é Deer ae Surerertaer i SSeS eee et 2 Mindibticabibeae cht pene enaet Citdoeteleet eit hibdaintiie Died Lablal eters: Anan ee erent Leela eee aseawnoe tats Senay usin peptone prrrNar LALLA ROOKH. And now hangs listening to the doves In warm Rosetta’s vale *—now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Meeris Lake. + ’T was a fair scene—-a land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought, that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in heaven’s serenest light ;—~ Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crown’d heads; Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds ; {— Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved Sun’s awake ;— Those ruin’d shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream ; Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lapwing’s ery is heard, Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheathe its gleam) Some purple-wing’d Sultana § sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an idol bird !— Who could have thought, that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red desert’s sands of flame! So quick, that every living thing Of human shape, touch’d by his wing, Like plants, where the simoom hath past At once falls back and withering ! The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pesthouse now, And ne’er will feel that sun again ! And oh! to see th’ unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps— * «The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves.” + Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Meeris. { ‘The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a jnandsome woman overcome with sleep.” § “That beautiful bird, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana.”PARADISE AND THE PERT, The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyzena stalks * Throughout the city’s desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies— Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meet The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets ! “Poor race of men!” said the pitying spirit, “ Dearly ye pay for your primal fall— Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the serpent is over them all!” She wept—the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran; For there’s a magic in each tear Such kindly spirits weep for man! Just then, beneath some orange-trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy— Beneath that fresh and springing bower, Close by the lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life, where’er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as though he ne’er were loved, Dies here, unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him—none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake, Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well-known through many a day, To speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard. That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world, when all is o’er, Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown dark. Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death — * Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary when he was there, says, ‘‘ The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyzenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries,” &c. STE Tt ts bag aera — Set ee a tpurprerontond Sopyratent rere PIP PRS perth ridin Sheen Ce ee eh cpeeetes ents oor las Sine re Peres bey aeatsiaiiniihiinhiee hebbe i preset tors errs eeeare tere gery ’ ween arateeT eS mee aond Eeneei taal ee rat ey dete oes — PeareTe a2: : sear nreatentahes aesecneps rene Pe aia eres ee Hestakaeiueuraantl tert repr te nine an eter t sen eens be El dententeed oer na ~ OC Hee wd" Bevo: oe et tear ‘ Oh lied eee eet eee tars PRS bl nen Ren na [tire arene te soos ilateesteereeet retards ene et peereete aa eae fy ore 3 Pir a ns " - “A - reid Paes peel ee ee ee LS Pe eee ee ee eee ty paste inte sthptapetets rts 66 LALLA ROOKH, That she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call’d his own, Was safe from this foul midnight’s breath ;-- Safe in her father’s princely halls, Where the cool air from fountains falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India’s land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann’d, But see, who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek? Tis she—far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betroth’d bride, She who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside !— Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake, her loosen’d tresses, Ah! once, how little did he think An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden’s infant cherubim ! And now he yields—now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer’d lips alone— Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask’d, or without shame. “Oh! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that’s breathed by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, ’tis sweet to me! There,—drink my tears, while yet they fall, Would that my bosom’s blood were balza, And, well thou knowst, I’d shed it all, To give thy brow one minute’s calm, Nay, turn not from me that dear face— Am I not thine—thy own loved bride— The one, the chosen one, whose place Tn life or death is by thy side? Thinkst thou that she, whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night That must be hers when thou art gone?PARADISH AND THE PERI, That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself ?—No, no— When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too ! Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn ; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there ! ” She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp In charnel airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes ! One struggle—and his pain is past— Her lover is no longer living ! One kiss the maiden gives, one last, Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! “Sleep,” said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e’er warm’d a woman’s breast— “Sleep on—in visions of odour rest, In balmier airs than ever yet stirr’d Th’ enchanted pile of that holy bird Who sings at the last his own death lay,* And in music and perfume dies away!” Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings through the place, And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed Such lustre o’er each paly face, That like two lovely saints they seem’d Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves, in odour sleeping ;— While that benevolent Peri beam’d Like their good angel, calmly keeping Watch oer them till their souls would waken } But morn is blushing in the sky; Again the Peri soars above, Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh . Of pure, self-sacrificing love. High throbb’d her heart, with hope elate, The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright spirit at the gate Smiled as she gave that offering in; * “Tn the East they suppose the Phcenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, whieh are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fize to the wood, and consumes himself.” biepheth pass So Ml ibibo cane tats as meted ere 3 4 nf gre pam She teen meen inperhd eae om Heth Pt he od metad Coe, yall ee tr, erie tear eee Sieten tee re ee Pee et ar a ee nrakdaeeies Rpescee tec teed goer rte. fp pet Somes peor htt “ es Rriviehvéser bepelngtrariemtnine Ratasiie iets ce seems ces Lee ee tes ee eter te bee pet Met e-t.n! eer Sotto a hdadoesbhntncobl oasbnand us a A EE TENN SEI ee rFohats foster wnsns ve! ryeturnde ve lelae Foto's Sree Se Seth ebetded-tehbet-ktehnior eee eed et fet 5 tal Parnas pti suco. er oe ad Dealt bat — = per oubraediccsneneton Lacan ee een be ia? A alana nee eee LALLA ROOKH, And she already hears the trees Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of Alla swells; And she can see the starry bowls That lie around that lucid lake, Upon whose banks admitted souls Their first sweet draught of glory take !* But ah! even Peris’ hopes are vain— Again the Fates forbade, again Th” immortal barrier closed—‘ Not yet,” The Angel said, as, with regret, He shut from her that glimpse of glory— “ True was the maiden, and her story, Written in light o’er Alla’s head, By seraph eyes shall long be read, But, Peri, see—the crystal bar Of Eden moves not—holier far Than even this sigh the boon must be That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee.” Now, upon Syria’s land of roses} Softly the light of Eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one who look’d from upper air O’er all th’ enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, how sparkling from below ! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sun-light falls ;— Gay lizards, glittering on the walls + Of ruin’d shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light ; * On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made ci stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave. —From Chateaubriand’s ‘‘ Mohammedan Paradise,” in his Beauties of Chris- tianity. + Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country has been always famous ;— hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses. { “The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them.”—Bruce.PARADISE AND THE PERI. And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west,—as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span Th’ unclouded skies of Peristan! And then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd’s ancient reed,* with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banqueting through the flowery vales ;— And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales | But nought can charm the luckless Peri; Her soul is sad—her wings are weary— Joyless she sees the sun look down On that great temple, once his own,} Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their she.lows from on high, Like dials, which vane wizard, Time, Had raised to count his ages by! Yet haply there may lie conceal’d Beneath those chambers of the Sun, Some amulet of gems, anneal’d In upper fires, some tablet seal’d With the great name of Solomon, Which, spell’d by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean lies the boon, The charm, that can restore so soon, An erring spirit to the skies. Cheer’d by this hope she bends her thither ;— Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, Nor haye the golden bowers of even Tn the rich west begun to wither ;— When, o’er the vale of Baalbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel-flies,t * «The syrinx, or Pan’s pipe, is still a pastoral instrument in Syria.” + The Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. t ““You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species oi Reet eT enn es Pen ener reeset ars oa sii o Pas : n 4 babdcnhbtupetetbasdl-geaateaaie ot ot : 4 sence easiets Ser eicechnains oo beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance, and their attire, prc- eure 1 for them the name of Damsels.”’ Jpeerage oe ees eters 7 to id ee a pias Labels Lebeee me nt te ele ae < -s Pest mp te a eigreenetes Sohn ne pike sabadebar toes i eer maneie ? Sarre oir : ; aeteasaeticn reir Senn ee ee rim pes ee eres pet Se peer get eee ner ore Se eet west ca verti Loa ERED TS PS ha Fs | LALLA ROOKHA, That flutter’d round the jasmine stems, Like wing’d flowers or flying gems :— And, near the boy, who tired with play, Now nestling ’mid the roses lay, She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small imaret’s rustic fount Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn’d To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn’d Upon a brow more fierce than that,— Sullenly fierce—a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire ! In which the Peri’s eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; The ruin’d maid—the shrine profained— Oaths broken—and the threshold stain’d With blood of guests !—there written, all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening time Soften’d his spirit) look’d and lay, Watching the rosy infant’s play :— Though still, whene’er his eye by chance Fell on the boy’s, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze As torches, that have burn’d all night Tbrough some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning’s glorious rays. But hark! the vesper call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air, From Syria’s thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping the eternal name of God From purity’s own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, a Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again }PARADISE AND THE PERT, it Oh ’twas a sight—that heayen—that child — A scene which might have well beguiled | Even haughty Eblis of a sigh | For glories lost and peace gone by ! And how felt he, the wretched man Reclining there—while memory ran O’er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o’er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace! “There was a time,” he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones—* thou blessed child ! When young, and haply pure as thou, IT look’d and pray’d like thee—but now—” He hung his head—each nobler aim : And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood’s hour, that instant came Fresh o’er him, and he wept—he wept ! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. “There’s a drop,’ said the Peri, ‘‘that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt’s land,* of so healing a power, So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour That drop descends, contagion dies, And health reanimates earth and skies !— Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, The precious tears of repentance fall? Though foul thy fiery plagues within, One heavenly drop hath dispell’d them all!” And now—behold him kneeling there By the child’s side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven The triumph of a Soul Forgiven ! "T'was when the golden orb had sei, While on their knees they linger’d yet, There fell a light, more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, * The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on 8t John’s Day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague. Aten 0% ee ; hie coy tte Si saeiae eee paneer Bite st _ Bs Peer eed S naaennaieel ”a eo werett inmebetdiiatunbtiteseeieta ett ores renent ten es oer oe " ee A ees a Sa ot tna =o rereepraes Urn ete ieee aed at Rcd caad abuts sh perk abepltnaehiectidtbibnielten Adil LALLA ROOKH. Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dew’'d that repentant sinner’s cheek ; To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam— But well th’ enraptured Peri knew ‘Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From heaven’s gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near ! “ Joy, joy for ever! my task is done— The Gates are pass’d, and heaven is won! Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am— Io thee, sweet Hden! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,* And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad ! “ Warewell, ye odours of earth, that dice, Passing away like a lover’s sigh ;— My feast is now of the Tooba tree,+ Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! “ Tarewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,— Oh, what are the brightest that e’er have blown, To the lote-tree spring by Alla’s throne, £ Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf ! Joy, joy for ever !—my task is done— The gates are pass’d, and heaven is won!” “ And this,” said the Great Chamberlain, “is poetry !—this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which, in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius, is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt!” After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind Fadladeen kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility, we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as * The Country of Delight—the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called ‘‘ The City of Jewels.” Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan. + “The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mohammed.” —Touba signifies eternal happiness. { Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the Koran, as hay- ing seen the angel Gabriel ‘‘by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no pass- ing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode.” ‘This tree, say the commenta- tors, stands in the seventh heaven, on the vight hand of the throne of God,73 shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of Basra.* They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success ;—as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What, then, was to be said to those who failed ?—to those who presumed, as in the present la- mentable instance, to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigour which gave a dig- nity even to negligence ;—who, like them, flung the jereed >} care- lessly, but not like them, to the mark;—“ and who,” said he, rais- ing his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, “contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !” It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri, of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth’ and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceited- ness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies, -—a-drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, anda tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel’s “radiant hand” he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. ‘‘ But, in short,” said he, ‘it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,—puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banian Hospi- tal for Sick Insects should undertake.” In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces,—re- minding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth, like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them ;—that severity often destroyed every chance of the perfection which it demanded; and that, after all, perfection was like the Mountain of the Talisman,—no one had ever yet reached its summit.t Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could lower for one instance the elevation of Fadladeen’s eyebrows, or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen ;—he carried the same spirit into matters * “Tt is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Belal Ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams.” } ‘‘The name of the javelin with which the Masterns exercise.” { ‘‘Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the ‘Mountain of the Talisman,’ because, according to the traditions of the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining its summit.” ae a ee ae fe emees rene ie Soton biuemhene ee Seompge dare e tat tetriehas.., eases ee coe Doeed aorene Sei es See et et et Os te rns = « " pePaetiesdhs palhacebbivhitetecuicansaenl Sra ee ese 3 . ee "1 ort ee teteetetiet rete pee reese pi ahergeereep tts aie at havbinaah peur ents Aes ttae sear se peer ot enon eas pint tert tee et ee eee et 5 i ar Salata ihe See eo ae Poorer’ 74 LALLA ROOKE, of poetry and of religion, and, though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal, too, was the same in either pursuit; whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters,—worshippers of cows, or writers of epics. They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless, where death seemed to share equal honours with Heaven, would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of her already. She was here met by messengers, despatched from Cashmere, who in- formed her that the King had arrived in the valley, and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were making in the saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelligence,—which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure, —convinecd her that her peace was gone for ever, and that she was in love—iiretrievably in love—with young ['eramorz. The veil, which this passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. Feramorz too,—what misery would be his, if the sweet houts of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers; if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he always paid to it, even ie should have yielded to the influence of those long and happy interviews, where music, poetry, the delightful ‘scenes of nature,—all tended to bring their hearts close together, and to waken, by every means, that too ready passion, which often, like the young of the desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes alone! * She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as unhappy, and this, however painful, she was resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue was yet in her hand, would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure; and she must only try to forget the short vision of happiness she had enjoyed,—like that Arabian shepherd, who, in wandering into the wilderness, caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim, and then lost them again for ever! T The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic manner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey, had never en- camped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid cavalcade through the city, and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were * “The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only lools- ing at them.” + Vide Sale’s Koran, note, vol. ii., p. 484,| LALLA ROOKH, 75 erected in all the squares, which cast forth showers of confectionery among the people; while the artisans, in chariots adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, exhibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the palaces, and domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made the city altogether like a place of enchantment—par- ticularly on the day when Lalla Rookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode along between ranks of beauti- ful boys and girls, who waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads * as they went, and then threw them to be gathered by the populace. Tor many days after their departure from Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. Lalla Rookh, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign indis- position was unnecessary. TFadladeen felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed memory !) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees,* at least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ;—while the ladies, who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by pea- cocks’ feathers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartly weary of the life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Chamberlain’s criticisms, were tasteless enough to wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night, the Prin- cess, who, for the freer enjoyment of the air, had mounted her favourite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, which she but too well knew, singing the following words :— **Tell me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier than the love Which enslaves our souls in this ! **Tell me not of Houris’ eyes ;— Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like some that burn below! “‘ Who that feels what love is here, All its falsehood—all its pain— Would, for even Elysium’s sphere, Risk the fatal dream again? ‘Who that midst a desert’s heat Sees the waters fade away, Would not rather die than meet Streams again as false as they?” The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered, went to Lalla Rookh’s heart ;—and, as she reluctantly rode on, she * Ferishta. : + The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore planted with trees on each side. :& @ oe Sa tbbeisigis 76 LALLA ROOKH. | could not help feeling it as a sad but sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the full as enamoured and miserable as herself. The place where they encamped that evening was the first de- lightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples, and planted with the most graceful trees of the East; where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich con- trast with the high fan-like foliage of the Palmyra,—that favourite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.* In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood, there was a tank surrounded by small mangoe-trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus; while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful- looking tower, which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known, and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. Lalla Rookh guessed in vain, and the all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi, was pro- ceeding most learnedly to shew that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the ladies suggested that perhaps Feramorz could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approach- ing his native mountains, and this tower might be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him, was by no means pleased with this officious reference; and the Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was despatched for Feramorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared before them, —looking so pale and unhappy in Lalla Rookh’s eyes, that she already repented of her cruelty in having so long excluded him. That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an ancient Iire-Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who, many hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab conquerers, preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to fecl interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles which had been made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own fire in the Burning Field at Bakou, when suppressed in one place, they had but broken out with fresh flame in another; and, as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and holy valley, which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers, and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sym- Si epetaeeeeiseutee setige an eee riwokores beget ; nae FR: rot) goers ed 2 _ pe ener Seats mda erie . ee Sptcnd heme Meee od tet eS Speer er sr nese enero hi hae Sieh dheehabedebeka behead dec aa Ad tiie ca te te Dee nt eee ones oto ae CS eens ree prveee Caleta ae aa Remaster ee ey parte ee ~ clin Nadedeibetdeetaieeth- tied tanel " ee Sppreh ces re teheeet oir r reins piare teeny ten Seeetcnee. ete meaap tsbrtnn be < edektesead oe aroet padi lah. ds Re srr pepe Ie ati al Peete pore tte tego t * «The baya, or Indian gross-beak.” pete nears. esr Piao ke ee es eee Sewn Hee ene eteTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 77 pathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the persecuted Ghebers, which every monument like this before them but tended more - powerfully to awaken. It was the first time that Feramorz had ever ventured upon so much prose before Fadladeen, and it may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan-hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, “Bigoted conquerors! —sympathy with Tire-Worshippers!”—while Feramorz, happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of the chamberlain, proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story, connected with the events of one of those brave struggles of the Fire-Worshippers of Persia against their Arab masters, which, if the evening was not too far advanced, he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for Lalla Rookh to refuse; —he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted, and while Fadladeen sat in unspeak- able dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire- Worshippers :— | THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. "Ts moonlight over Oman’s sea; * Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously, And her blue waters sleep in smiles. ’Tis moonlight in Harmozia’s+ walls, And through her Emir’s porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel,+ Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ;— The peaceful sun, whom better suits | The music of the bulbul’s nest, Or the light touch of lovers’ lutes, To sing him to his golden rest ! All hush’d—there’s not a breeze in motion; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they come, Nor leaf is stirr’d nor wave is driven ;— The wind-tower on the Emir’s dome § Can hardly win a breath from heaven. x Persian Gulf. t eaicison a town on the Persian side of the Gulf. ¢t A Moorish instrument of music. : : ae § ‘At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they have towers for tne purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the houses.”oy Sn dedae ka “age atnaed aa ad oe Sarees cas —————— A Alb beled nhl ek ech ehh he ad ot ME ER hee he Liat ee ant oe eee testers erent hn datdeter tae a taal m ee eee ee ee ee ae ee PenteeT ep tean ree eee Th tes Sol a+ Tae me ie matrpe ana hdubuibc adapt bhnen.h Pernt i Se ithaca fer enters lian tat Se wie itteneaceeeee ~e os mi epee — onto penteny bieknen epeeel betel bah ck aes Se Pale a 4 cy STIL HST Fs: LALLA ROOKH, Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps ; While curses load the air he breathes, And falchions from unnumber’d sheaths Are starting to avenge the shame His race hath brought on Ivan’s * name, Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike *Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike;.—~— One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think through unbelievers’ blood Lies their directest path to heaven. One who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath pour’d, To mutter o’er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword ;>;— Nay, who can coolly point the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim’s heart! Just Alla! what must be Thy look, When such a wretch before Thee stands Unblushing, with Thy sacred book,— Turning the leaves with blood-stain’d hands, And wresting from its page sublime lis creed of lust and hate and crime ? ven as those bees of 'Trebizond,— Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad !*f Never did fierce Arabia send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was Iran doom’d to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her throne had fallen—her pride was crugsh’d— Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush’d In their own land,—no more their own,— To crouch beneath a stranger’s throne, Her towers, where Mithra once had burn’d, ‘'o Moslem shrines—O shame !—were turn’d, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship pour’d, * «Tran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.” + “On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usu inscribed.” { ‘‘There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad.” allyTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 79 And cursed the faith their sires adored, Yet has she hearts, ’mid all.this ill, O’er all this wreck high, buoyant still With hope and vengeance ;—hearts that yet Like gems, in darkness issuing rays They ’ve treasured from the sun that’s set Beam all the light of long-lost days ! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm'd in heaven’s approving ray ! Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush’d, those planets shine, Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved By the white moonlight’s dazzling power ;— None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour, 7 3 And see—where, high above those rocks That o’er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands ;—where ebon locks, As glossy as a heron’s wing Upon the turban of a king,* Hang from the lattice, long and wild,— "Tis she, that Emir’s blooming child, All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungenile race ;— An image of youth’s fairy fountain Springing in a desolate mountain !->+ Oh, what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain’d from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man’s disturbing eye,— The flower that blooms beneath the sea. Too deep for sunbeams doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity ! So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o’er !|— Like those who all at once discover * “Their kines wear plumes of black herons’ feathers upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty.” oS S35 : + “The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the Hast.” Oe i Dak oT eae oro sperm bern S * tae aine? aedreE PEP etre ey $i 3221) SUSI AC LESLIE LALLA ROOKH. In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breathed but theirs ! ~ Lond 552% Sahel Midseseearenpapnabesteninbesonnton meaherstere a nrobaaecsmacosaeenesimtebesetas Beautiful are the maids that glide On summer-eves through Yemen’s * dalos, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters’ roseate veils ;— And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, Who, lull’d in cool kiosk or bower, t Before their mirrors count the time, And grow still lovelier every hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In Araby’s gay Harams smiled, Whose boasted brightness would not fade Before Al Hassan’s blooming child. eee eaee Maney ee- ete Peele 2, Meee Fe Soeotnd ee ae Coes Light as the angel shapes that bless An infant’s dream, yet not the less Rich in all woman’s loveliness ;— With eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abash’d away, Blinded like serpents, when they gaze Upon the emerald’s virgin blaze ! + Yet, fill’d with all youth’s sweet desires, Mingling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, The fond, weak tenderness of this ! A soul, too, more than half divine, Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion’s soften’d glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere ! eet ” ee Sidhebehilitedthaenstied-tacdlehted, atacha Cerin sab et bebkettigarinnscataned ey De lit ok Sears Such is the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bower, Watching the still and moonlight deep, Ah! ’twas not thus,—with tearful eyes And beating heart,—she used to gaze Senha betedeeciets etter a ree ae poets re * Arabia Felix. + “They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre o! emermds he immediately becomes blind.” IPSEC CELERCECES EU BPES bree hobee ae eteiccecesca SO Ra LES EAS Siw STR OR SiS sete Se ete sees 1h 5454% Pee Se et ee SS °ohespee tants peeing eset one pss bcedeeiedene ed tees tT eer Pet ind er reneneet bab bbdand pb ein ok eee = eee Vet bere ee CERT Sy S\ es Ses SS SENS SS SN SSS“ Such 1s the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that bigh bower, Watching the still and moonlight deep. roe tornarne wes Page 80, soryerva sare rts iad° ee etter eee reeers oe hid dekdebepibiiabdhidibis dict ak oie eke Cel ae ek, eaaieiaal Serer ie. een ee. ek eet aa oa eee i i Pee se es 8 no wis pee eae ee eb sar br sret or pe hems ee oe iar. eee bo 4 he eee rer peees ae ATHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. On the magnificent earth and skies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep ? Whom waits she all this lonely night? Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, For man to scale that turret’s height ! So deem’d at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air, After the day-beam’s withering fire * He built her bower of freshness there, And had it deck’d with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair ;— Think, reverend dreamer! think so still, Nor wake to learn what love can dare— Love, all-defying Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease ;— Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are pluck’d on danger’s precipice ! Bolder than they, who dare not dive For pearls, but when the sea’s at rest, Love, in the tempest most alive, Hath ever held that pearl the best He finds beneath the stormiest water ! Yes—Araby’s unrivall’d daughter, Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There’s one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb th’ untrodden solitude Of Ararat’s tremendous peak, And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heaven’s pathways, if to thee they led! Even now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar’s impatient way ;— Even now thou hearest the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below! Like her to whom, at dead of night, The bridegroom, with his locks of light, Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scaled the terrace of his bride ;— When, as she saw him rashly spring, And mid-way up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black haiz, Exclaiming, breathless, “‘ There, love, thore {” # “At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes so hot that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water.”’—Marco Polo. nana ROE a eae a a e ts + Senate ee eee aaa setaeteaeteeet tie ine te Te Sets hc edie tattae dees se cae MEN atticibinny ee oe. 4 ees ae erasprem a oo eet oes eee et ee ee et meee e ihesernteuh tented Ser peg oe eh Het DHNO INE OTHE ee efwh rf od oe a paar eh he a) ery eee at ote een paubsababaeourhacaahs Stetedeeieaes pee onaee enor ees meee" Th ° Sel ST ed Esse ee thteeieet eats bidet bh oie od eye ene he east! ven eres A g< SO dr Renee owwe ss semminaue, eee eset ty ae at see Serna 3 * bh eed Fey LALLA ROOKE. And scarce did manlier nerve uphold The hero Zal in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who fleet and bold Now climbs the rocks to Hinda’s bower. See—light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of Arabia clamber, * Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is at the maiden’s chamber, She loves—but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;— Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird, without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, from isles in th’ undiscover'd seas, To shew his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away ! Will he thus fly—her nameless lover ? Alla forbid! ’twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft kanoon,T Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there ?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay ! This fancy ne’er hath left her mind ; And—though, when terror’s swoon had past, She saw a youth of mortal kind Before her in obeisance cast,— Yet often since, when he has spoken Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, Oh! she hath fear’d her soul was given To some unhallow’d child of air, Some erring spirit, cast from heaven, Like those angelic youths of old, Who burn’d for maids of mortal mould, Bewilder’d left the glorious skies, And lost their heaven for woman’s eyes ! Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he, Who woos thy young simplicity ; * “On the lofty hills of Arabia Petrasa are rock-goats.”—WNicbuhr. + ‘*Canun, esptce de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux, le dames en touchent dans le sérail, avec des décailles armées de pointes de coco,”— Loderini, translated by De Cournand, ~But one of earth’s impassion’d sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day-God’s living fire ! THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 83 | | | But quench’d to-night that ardour seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk hig brow i— Never before, but in her dreams, Had she beheld him pale as now: And those were dreams of troubled sleep, rom which ’twas joy to wake and Weep ; Visions that will not be forgot, | But sadden every waking scene, Like warning ghosts that leave the spot All wither'd where they once have been ! | “* How sweetly,” said the trembling maid, | Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that moonlight flood— “‘ How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle! Oft, in my fancy’s wanderings, I’ve wish’d that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers, Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where nota pulse should beat but ours, | And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,— | Where the bright eyes of angels only | 2 Should come around us, to behold | A Paradise so pure and lonely ! | Would this be world enough for thee? ”— Playful she turn’d, that he might see | The passing smile her cheek put on; | But when she mark’d how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; | And, bursting into heart-felt tears, “Yes, yes,” she cried, “my hourly fears, | My dreams have boded all too right— We part—for ever part—to-night ! I knew, I knew it could not last— ‘Twas bright, ’twas heavenly, but ’tis past | Oh, ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay ; I never loved a tree or flower, But ’twas the first to fade away. l never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eyé,oe sorsaertsmssscics pers are | ee = , ‘ y 1 . ea a é bee q oo : “ nd fens ae ate Ce ee ae one eae Ciera wegen ets opees-namne Pp eo ek Poe ME PU “ ors Lonbdihinanbnd keds saeba bed oemeael a ra ele rety ta Salkabebesetstap tres aberrant a onersnPhpgeceadabneuenerbortal — erhese*rsrseted on ede ete yo Daentabneeesbenesne erst eeropee yes eStart es ne Nr eine tents Pr hesteetd — a ee pon ULgrsantackcremeackers ei hee er eeenene oc Mitecaierstbabetcaaareteeen meth e emt eye ee oe bees Fs} sis ieca ke PHCASURNALSCAL RL as £2 Se a: LALLA ROOKH. But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die! Now too—the joy urost like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,— ° O misery ! must I lose that too? "Yet go—on peril’s brink we meet ;— Those frightful rocks--that treacherous sea~ No, never come again—though sweet, Though heaven, it may be death to thee. Farewell—and blessings on thy way, Where’er thou go’st, beloved stranger ! Better to sit and watch that ray, And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me, and in danger !” “ Danger !—oh, tempt me not to boast—” The youth exclaim’d— thou little knowst What he can brave, who, born and nurst In danger’s paths, has dared her worst ! Upon whose ear the signal-word Of strife and death is hourly breaking; Who sleeps with head upon the sword His fever’d hand must grasp in waking ! Danger !—” “Say on—thou fearst not, then, And we may meet—oft meet again?” “Oh! look not so,—beneath the skies I now fear nothing but those eyes. If aught on earth could charm or force My spirit from its destined course,— If aught could make this soul forget The bond to which its seal is set, ’T would be those eyes ;—they, only they, Could melt that sacred seal away! But no—'tis fix’d—my awful doom. Is fix’d—on this side of the tomb We meet no more—why, why did Heaven Mingle two souls that earth has riven, Has rent asunder wide as ours ? Oh, Arab maid! as soon the powers Of light and darkness may combine, As I be link’d with thee or thine! Thy Father——” “ Holy Alla save His gray head from that lightning glance } Thou knowst him not—he loves the brave ; Nor lives there under heayen’s expanse PCat se e4ts' tkbeeeas Petia tat siTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. One who would prize, would worship thee, And thy bold spirit, more than he. Oft when, in childhood, I have play’d With the bright falchion by his side, I’ve heard him swear his lisping maid In time should be a warrior’s bride. And still, whene’er, at Haram hours, I take him cool sherbets and flowers, Ile tells me, when in playful mood, A hero shall my bridegroom be, Since maids are best in battle woo’d, And won with shouts of victory ! Nay, turn not from me—thou alone Art form’d to make both hearts thy own. Go—join his sacred ranks—thou knowst Th’ unholy strife these Persians wage :— Good Heaven, that frown !—even now thou glowst With more than mortal warrior’s rage. Haste to the camp by morning’s light, And, when that sword is raised in fight, Oh, still remember love and I Beneath its shadow trembling lic! One victory o’er those Slaves of Fire, Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire Abhors - “ Fold, hold—thy words are death!” The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and shew’d beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung.*— “‘ Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see All that thy sire abhors in me! Yes—ZJ am of that impious race, Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and eyen, Hail their Creator’s dwelling-place Among the living lights of heaven ! +- . Yes—J am of that outcast few, To Iran and to vengeance true, Vho curse the hour your Arabs came To desolate our shrines of flame, And swear, before God’s burning eye, To break our country’s chains, or die! Thy bigot sire—nay, tremble not— He who gave birth to those dear eyes With me is sacred as the spot From which our fires of worship rise ! * “They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it.” + ‘They suppose the throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary.”“At ee Tete ee Tre eee ee : Beer ae Sadl eee 3 ss sated me Tle out ak ee pehebdane-bapsetesiaen ee — Sppoccnatistaanee NO LORE eee bach hidhh dnd.aphiien po beaeeetind Acrabtecrtea ada ehaeeittae ated iehaed res —— oer Piabtekchildatciliie a. died hee elo terenehehirg teint et pets albeit Kon SS ee a eke ma Passi ldapdinetdaniocsie sian pines pear meroaie feb rian bebe naar her aia 4 ee ete eee ee i " ote Sestenmiinieadhaihendelenael tar ne tars Td . as poet Ninh det eee ee ee bbteh ket hoa tere wa PY ts AE rs po hites cee Mees ee ee ree Pbitanpeigihe bey hrteinheertnerherty Es | \ eo Stee ta LALLA ROOKH, But know—'twas he I sought that night, When, from my watch-boat on the sea, I caught this turret’s glimmering light, And up the rude rocks desperately Rush’d to my prey—thou knowst the rest— I climb’d the gory vulture’s nest, And found a trembling dove within ;— Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin— If Love has made one thought his own, That Vengeance claims first—last—alone ! Oh! had we never, never met, Or could this heart even now forget How link’d, how bless’d we might have been, Had fate not frown’d so dark between ! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt, Through the same fields in childhood play’d, At the same kindling altar knelt,— Then, then, while all those nameless tieg, In which the charm of country lies, Had round our hearts been hourly spun, Till Iran’s cause and thine were one ;— While in thy lute’s awakening sigh I heard the voice of days gone by, And saw in every smile of thine | Returning hours of glory shine !— | { While the wrong’d spirit of our land Lived, look’d, and spoke her wrongs through theo—. God! who could then this sword withstand ? Its very flash were victory ! But now—estranged, divorced for ever, Far as the grasp of Fate can sever ; Our only ties what love has wove,— Faith, friends, and country, sunder’d wide ;— And then, then only true to love, When false ‘to all that’s dear beside ! Thy father Iran’s deadliest foe— Thyself, perhaps, even now—but no— Hate never look’d so lovely yet ! No—sacred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee ! When other eyes shall see, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall. Thou ’lt think how well one Gheber loved, And for his sake thou’lt weep for all! But look———” With sudden start he turn’d And pointed to the distant wave, MAB AMBYeE Se teem oR SiS teste tr sek tessa ss $y EY eyTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn’d Bluely, as o’er some seaman’s grave; And fiery darts, at intervals,* Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. “ My signal lights !—I must away— Both, both are ruin’d, if I stay. Fareweli—sweet life! thou clingst in vain— Now—vengeance !—I am thine again.” Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp’d, Nor look’d—but from the lattice dropp’d Down mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young Hinda stood, Nor moved, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe ;— Shrieking she to the lattice flew, | ““T come—I come—if in that tide Thou sleepst to-night—I’ll sleep there too, | In death’s cold wedlock by thy side. Oh, I would ask no happier bed Than the chill wave my love lies under ;— Sweeter to rest together dead, Far sweeter, than to live asunder!” | But no—their hour is not yet come— Again she sees his pinnace fiy, | Wafting him fieetly to his home, | Where’er that ill-starr’d home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem’d to win Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind ! The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet’s theme; for, when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein. Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country — through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more. than one place, the awful signal of the bamboo * «The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it was dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which, in some measure, re- sembled lightning or falling stars.” Pett ree Pca ee ee Rerarpeyeetparreire a rier re nid Seah sehen eee ae ae Peers ea perese rele Panerave ant tees SEES ee Pete ger nner ree Pn = Shs pdnpthertuieenbrlnnthertned tbyoeah a hake as nat eae Peanese ee MRS be ite ey eee rh . lehttihlbnbkhak inte lid-cadeh- nde aceaboo eo aepesana etal tote be eT Pena et Se eee es oe cistearehenee tehete! eee es Seda = Ko ea Peake Rind a et et nepres praca eptece) pa intradermal ate Pree: LALLA ROOKH. staff, with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected pillars, ornamented with the most beautiful por- celain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palan- keens. Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story :— The morn has risen clear and calm, And o’er the Green Sea* palely shines, Revealing Bahrein’s groves of palm, And lighting Kishma’s* amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of Araby, While breezes from the Indian Sea Blow round Selama’s= sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath,— Whose waves are rich with many a grape, ~ And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass‘d, Have toward that holy headland cast— Oblations to the genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair ! The nightingale now bends her flight From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen ; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn,—bespangled o’er With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar § That ever youthful sultan wore On the first morning of his reign! And see—the sun himself !—on wings Of glory up the east he springs. Angel of light! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, * The Persian Gul. + Islands in the Gulf. t Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. § In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, ‘The dew is of such a pure nature that, if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust.” TOLD ESIEILILT FS asa tate i er aa eT tsey SET RESTTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Has first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn’d To meet that eye where’er it burn’d ?— When, from the banks of Bendemeer To the nut-groves of Samarcand Thy temples flamed o’er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who, on Cadessia’s * bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From Iran’s broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains :— Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, Beyond the Caspian’s Iron Gates, Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains ! Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod, Beneath a despot stranger’s nod !— Oh! he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror’s creed ! Ts Iran’s pride then gone for ever, Quench’d with the flame in Mithra’s caves ?— No—she has sons that never—never— Will stoop to be the Moslem’s slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves, Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong ; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like Zeilan’s giant palm, Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round ! Yes, Emir! he who scaled that tower, And, could he reach thy slumbering breast, * The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. + Derbend.—‘“ Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de For; ce sont les Caspize Portes des anciens.” t{ “The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree, flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon.”—Thunberg. The sheath which envelopes the 89eeegrertasttss ase en oct oes go rere irate ne seat taee pears Pitre arinf ida bbdeaihaneshedibastaetbaumuntantl at ee nee ere Pee Se eee ao tiee eas cisions aad asin ps brett rei-nshor eoneantbarsyort rm ap Restrnt mdr ee etter et oe bs Pembina Prenat pbs thd ee ee Lidikhe ke ot nt kee Pe bee eee Teer beeen Le phailaneubatsl a a nn il LALLA ROOKH. Would teach thee, in a Gheber’s power How safe even tyrant heads may rest— Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue,—blest to be Even for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty ! Thou knowst them well—’tis some moons sincs Thy turban’d troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot prince ! Have swarm’d among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, even here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here—ere the winds half-wing’d thee o’er— Rebellion braved thee from the shore. Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain’d The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain’d. How many a spirit, born to bless, Has sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day’s an hour’s success Had wafted to eternal fame ! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if chill’d at first, If check’d in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs, and sink again ;— But if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there! And who is he that wields the might Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre’s dazzling light The eyes of Yeman’s warriors wink ? Who comes embower’d in the spears Of Kerman’s hardy mountaineers ?— Those mountaineers that truest, last, Cling to their country’s ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on Iran’s heights, IIIA. Ee Es toe Bey Ba ores ee ee eeTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 91 Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of His worship too! "Tis Hafed—name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm ;— Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. "Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire (So rank’d by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire! Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, < A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,* Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ; And gifted by the fiends of fire, Who groan’d to see their shrines exvire, With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran’s light in blood! Such were the tales that won belief, And such the colouring fancy gave To a young, warm and dauntless Chief,— One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul adored, For happy homes and altars free,— His only talisman the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty ! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names that have sanctified their blood: As Lebanon’s small mountain-flood Is render’d holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks ! + ’T'was not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny :— * Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy Land, among the Peris and Dives, may be found in Richardson’s Disserta- tion. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them after- wards to his descendants. + “This rivulet,” says Dandini, ‘‘is called the Holy River, from the ‘ cedar- saints’ among which it rises.” ee Sages > Picts Sethe ante ahaa nak ieebrentens ett pr tate eh cers Sidi ate Blame, > Manso enn ena ae eeniehenerrieneeset arise tani ts Ps r Dean Wg eee ttt ol eee Eeeetd2 oJ Soest mancitencnes go ios ld en add en Pree [Saenger eee T er Tre ere Fa eer ees Se Teeeee neers ad Cmca Patapofteeso-npenbperhitind hathmuerteaeobeeqone ane acheteaet * } Rye eey meet ot sere nnoeen ap OER Ger Be MG Enh Fo Padhtenirhibtrtaaidheptarbnd- bok idacsapacbebe bob-aon amok Pa teppei teeth os " Stchoysts ee oo) peer tees nose Potts tse ded eae riestsem ne Datta hdd take eee eT s _— — ene : Lsthisnltbsadbeaiabeshestiattaeceseaecoenneres hemrerneneseed Silent ea poreye! ‘ Peabo eee ye a ne widen Bees we mathe ee Ret titty ar beddeaia er terrae £ These birds sleep in the air. Good Hone. ae LALLA ROOKH. ’T was not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead, Though framed for Iran’s happiest years, Was born among her chains and tears !— ’Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow’d Before the Moslem as he pass’d, Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast— No—far he fled—indignant fled The pageant of his country’s shame ; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; And as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty ! But vain was valour—vain the flower Of Kerman, in that deathful hour, Against Al Hassan’s whelming power. In vain they met him, helm to helm, Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway, And with their corpses block’d his way— In vain—for every lance they raised Thousands around the conqueror blazed ; For every arm that lined their shore, Myriads of slaves were wafted o’er,— A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarm as fast they bow’d As dates beneath the locust-cloud ! There stood—but one short league away From old Harmozia’s sultry bay — A rocky mountain, o’er the Sea Of Oman beetling awfully, A last and solitary link Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian’s reedy brink — Down winding to the Green Sea beach Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants in the flood, As if to guard the gulf across; While, on its peak, that braved the sky, A ruin’d temple tower’d so high That oft the sleeping albatross * Tak eae Pa b SOCCER Rated st & They are most common about the Cape of tet Cate tees es |Specie eae “hat ems 3 Pe 5 ‘ et > if ra L Fy aE || i i rf & id 4 i i ty i eaoenane “ ed webehe rep ie a et A ruin’d temple tower’d so high _ That oft the sleeping albatross _ Struck the wild ruins with her wing. re ies pare ieee hs ees is * Perot a Puge 92. eee * peer eet Se eran et ati eee genous: bi ee he aieue Sieecestrneters et ee Pete bsptanthatctshntatshehdhtchsbnch-Auite dui dete peaacen eAcdionc aenabeittekietatahaatie titer _ 7 Cen See ar Pe eseteiteties } | = i H n : > Lj : i . sgorgeegs gs taps Se pA net oe prerees prove tor heii erase Ss eden Se dbaiceteebeae kes Sos eee ere ee: best pret pea pst Se mam ete regen tay Soe Sette Media beerd deed ets bemth tkle ree eaTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And from her cloud-rock’d slumbering Started—to find man’s dwelling there In her own silent fields of air! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dash’d, like midnight revellers, in ;— And such the strange, mysterious din At times throughout those caverns roll’d,— And such the fearful w nders told Of restless sprites imprison’d there, That bold were Moslem who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber’s lonely cliff. On the land side, those towers sublime, That seem’d above the grasp of Time, Were sever’d from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, So fathomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between ; It seem’d a place where ghouls might come With their foul banquets from the tomb, And in its caverns feed unseen. Like distant thunder, from below, The sound of many torrents came; ‘'oo deep for eye or ear to know If ‘twere the sea’s imprison’d flow, Or floods of ever-restless flame. For each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire ; * And though for ever past the days When God was worshipp’d in the blaze That from its lofty altar shone,— Though fled the priests, the votaries gone, Still did the mighty flame burn on Through chance and change, through good and ill, Like its own God’s eternal will, Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable ! Thither the vanquish’d Hafed led His little army’s last remains ;— «« Welcome, terrific glen!” he said, “Thy gloom, that Eblis’ self might dread, Is heaven to him who flies from chains |”’ O’er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known To him and to his chiefs alone, ® The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires;he M Te ea! eee ars “ eeeee ti pried peers bse ren rs iit ieee lacs ee tle hs Peete ne bees Sr oe nado ian peed a ert aioe Phe ee Ses Ssaetaechiseihapheieteieen nema eee wietha: Fetetetie, etre ey oo : 1 lias llaleh ules sotindiae ie Linnie tiie en Ledeppbiidshhdnsie ths Cs! paid te " oe ee adres Shad Soshades pt thesee eet Se een a eee — ries rs coca Sha btsrd dan oar Se ee ee ~~ ory er eres ee at a ened erat bqetsbes ~ LALLA ROOKH, They cross'‘d the chasm and gain’d the towers ;— “This home,” he cried, “at least is ours— Here we may bleed, unmock’d by hymns Of Moslem triumph o’er our head; Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs To quiver to the Moslem’s tread. Stretch’d on this rock, while vultures’ beaks Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, Here,—happy that no tyrant’s eye Gloats on our torments—we may die!” "Twas night when to those towers they camo, And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin’d altar broke, Glared on his features as he spoke :— “Tis o’er—what men could do, we’ve done— Tf Iran weld look tamely on, And see her priests, her warriors driven Before a sensual bigot’s nod, A wretch who takes his lusts to heaven, And makes a pander of his God! If her proud sons, her high-born souls, Men in whose veins—oh, last disgrace ! The blood of Zal and Rustam * rolls, — If they will court this upstart race, And turn from Mithra’s ancient ray, To kneel at shrines of yesterday ! Jf they will crouch to Iran’s foes, Why, let them—till the land’s despair Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows Too vile for even the vile to bear! Till shame at last, long hidden, burns Their inmost core, and conscience turns Hach coward tear the slave lets fall Back on his heart in drops of gall! But here, at least, are arms unchain’d, And souls that thraldom never stain’d ;— This spot, at least, no foot of slave Or satrap ever yet profaned; And though but few—though fast the wave Of life is ebbing from our veins, Enough for vengeance still remains, As panthers, after set of sun, Rush from the roots of Lebanon Across the dark sea-robber’s way, We’ll bound upon oir startled prey ;— * Ancient heroes of Persia. ‘Among the Ghebers there are some who boast their descent from Rustam.”THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. And when some hearts that proudest swell Have felt our falchion’s last farewell; When Hope’s expiring throb is o’er, And even Despair can prompt no more, This spot shall be the sacred grave Of the last few who, vainly brave, Die for the land they cannot save !” His chiefs stood round—each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid— And though so wild and desolate Those courts, where once the mighty sate ; Nor longer on those mouldering towers Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, With which of old the Magi fed The wandering spirits of their dead ;* Though neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charm’d leaf of pure pomegranate ; f Nor hymn, nor censer’s fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp’d planet ;£ Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar’s fires They swore the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts still left to bleed, Should be, in Iran’s injured name, To die upon that mount of flame— The last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled shrine! Brave, suffering souls! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek heart, one gentle foe, Whom Love first touch’d with others’ woe— Whose life, as free from thought as sin, Slept like a lake, till Love threw in His talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, Emir! thy unheeding child, Mid all this havoc, bloom’d and smiled-—— * « Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves.” __ + In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their fire, as described by Lord, “The Daroo,” he says, ‘‘giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness.” ; t ‘‘Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at QOulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, and offer incense to the sun.” en’ Oe ararebe a ree etes be, eb Ing rd oa aneernere nes “ er ee oad sine CIS ri ” Peod terse a oe Sart Sahat LALLA ROOKH, Tranquil as on some battle-plain The Persian lily shines and towers, Before the combat’s reddening stain Hath fallen upon her golden flowers. Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlistening and aloof she stood— And oft, when thou hast paced along Thy Haram halls with furious heat, Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song, That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels, touch’d so near Hell’s confines, that the damn’d can hear ! Far other feelings love has brought— Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought, And thinks that o’er, almost to madness ! Oft doth her sinking heart recall His words—“ For my sake weep for all;”’ And bitterly, as day on day Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, She weeps a lover snatch’d away In every Gheber wretch that bleeds, There’s not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim; There’s not an arrow wings the sky But fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footstep light Al Hassan’s falchion for the fight; And,—had he look’d with clearer sight, Had not the mists, that ever rise From a foul spirit, dimm’d his eyes— He would have mark’d her shuddering frame, When from the field of blood he came, The faltering speech—the look estranged— Voice, step, and life, and beauty changad— He would have mark’d all this, and known Such change is wrought by love alone ! wien. ts rr ee atea eee’ Seascasneee peace Se aeetad plane ints u pe tos eet petosaheyetetiwrts-toeccetore ess J acgeeen etecees, Seanad rete ibededngitbats daatanlad-biditegsandoots anpeubateedentheasstadbodebtnaeo mes Coke me ee aoe aiaeboeae ; ae oe hee = = re SEIN ee eethbatebetanstiesrraeipheubssurioanipeenten Ah! not the love that should have bless’d So young, so innocent a breast ; Not the pure, open, prosperous love That, pledged on earth and seal’d above, Grows in the world’s approving eyes, iu friendship’s smile and home’s caress, Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties Into one knot of happiness ! No, Hinda, no—thy fatal flame Pe attache ete eT ett eee peeeoten et RT Messer ee GLO ae ERS Stato te BD BS Sree bestinss s f Bie ieee testsTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame.— A passion, without hope or pleasure, In thy soul’s darkness buried deep, It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,— Some idol, without shrine or name, O’er which its pale-eyed votaries keep Unholy watch, while others sleep ! Seven nights have darken’d Oman’s Sea, Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, She saw his light oar rapidly Hurry her Gheber’s bark away,— And still she goes, at midnight hour, To weep alone in that high bower, And watch, and look along the deep For him whose smiles first made her weep,—~ But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw that bark again. The owlet’s solitary ery, The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, And oft the hateful carrion-bird, Heavily flapping his clogg’d wing, Which reek’d with that day’s banqueting— Was all she saw, was all she heard. ’Tis the eighth morn—A1 Hassan’s brow Is brighten’d with unusual joy— What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy ? The sparkle upon Herkend’s Sea, When tost at midnight furiously,* Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye! “Up, daughter, up—the Kerna’s + breath Has blown a blast would waken Death, And yet thou sleepst—up, child, and see This blessed day for Heaven and me, A day more rich in Pagan blood Than ever flash’d o’er Oman’s flood. Before another dawn shall shine, His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine; This very night his blood shall steep These hands all over ere I sleep !”— “ His blood !”’ she faintly scream’d—her mind Still singling one from all mankind. ® ‘Tt is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire.” + A kind of trumpet ;—it “was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of svhich is so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles.” Gpiste neers Poi ted see Secee ie iliidkaadbnithsnembeneehitieetenettedeine ates ee tree peer enwererrmeedtarier tt peaeie i lees er ft Benen te) ep teint ofits ct Sbabiactane yore Poe Me bracts eeoes : Sane aes ee “we See ipenanthihet boiweh nee here tertenet —) vee me Sinead nlad-Aie-hidcapieheiernaeaen ee ee entered eee 7 98 LALLA ROOKH, ‘Yes, spite of his ravines and towers, Hafed, my child, this night is ours. Thanks to all-conquering treachery, Without whose aid the links accurst, That bind these impious slaves, would be Too strong for Alla’s self to burst ! That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread My path with piles of Moslem dead, Whose baffling spells had almost driven Back from their course the swords of Heaven, This night, with all his band, shall know How deep an Arab’s steel can go, When God and vengeance speed the blow. And—Prophet !—by that holy wreath Thou worest on Ohod’s field of death * I swear, for every sob that parts In anguish from these heathen hearts, A gem from Persia’s plunder’d mines Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines. But, ha !—she sinks—that look so wild— Those livid lips—my child, my child, This life of blood befits not thee, And thou must back to Araby. Ne’er had I risk’d thy timid sex In scenes that man himself might dread, Had I not hoped our every tread Would be on prostrate Persian necks— Curst race, they offer swords instead ! But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now Is blowing o’er thy feverish brow To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; And, ere a drop of this night’s gore Hath time to chill in yonder towers, Thow’lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !” His bloody boast was all too true— There lurk’d one wretch among the few Whom Hafed’s eagle eye could count Around him on that fiery mount,— One miscreant, who for gold betray’d The pathway through the valley’s shade To those high towers where Freedom stood In her last hold of flame and blood. Left on the field last dreadful night, When, sallying from their sacred height, The Ghebers fought hope’s farewell fight, * “Mohammed had two helmocts, an interior and exterior one; the latter eens called-Al Mawashah, the wreathed garland he wore at the hattle of Ohod.”THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 99 He lay—but died not with the brave; That sun, which should have gilt his grave, Saw him a traitor and a slave ;— And, while the few, who thence return’d To their high rocky fortress, mourn’d For him among the matchless dead They left behind on glory’s bed, He lived, and, in the face of morn, Laugh’d them and Faith and Heaven to scorn ! Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o’er the counsels of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might! May life’s unblessed cup for him Be drugg’d with treacheries to the brim,— With hopes, that but allure to fly, With joys that vanish while he sips, Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on-the lips! His country’s curse, his children’s shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, May he, at last, with lips of flame, On the parch’d desert thirsting die,— While lakes that shone in mockery nigh Are fading oft, untouch’d, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! And, when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damn’d-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven, and feeling hell! Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night before, which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-musk has just passed over. She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live for ever on the water, enjoy a per- petual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders annually send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea, At frst, this little bark appeared to be empty, but, on coming nearer She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, everything else was forgotten, and the con- tinuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ;—the violet sherbets were<9 5 pil ceg presurerennstenenqurehenceetmrepeertreecerstratts = ce =t ee eet ot ete ih Pe eee eet i bartonc pashan “ Phir toa oe poe ee nae vanes See weer reo a yy fa eS hel = hers TSehintup taeda dae teadaetaet reer os Setanta iter ame sale cad Care Tes pe eeneben ot teense - rn ioe Ms Seat os PY rn Fr tre tt Le air ar mee rermr res eeaay tings 100 LALLA ROOKH. hastily handed round, and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the a 2 fe 3 Z 8 I 3 pathetic measure of Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the poet thus continued :— The day is lowering—stilly black Sleeps the grim waye, while heaven’s rack, Dispersed and wild, ’twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter’d canopy ! There ’s not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past ;- Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast ;— There, roll’d in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thundev’s dwelling ! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven; As though the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, And, having swept the firmament, Was now in fierce career for earth. On earth ’twas yet all calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest’s sound. The diver steer’d for Ormus’ bowers, And moor’d his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land ;—upon the beach The pilot oft had paused, with glance Turn’d upward to that wild expanse ; And all was boding, drear, and dark As her own soul, when Hinda’s bark Went slowly from the Persian shore— No music timed her parting oar,* Nor friends upon the lessening strand Linger’d to wave the unseen hand, Or speak the farewell, heard no more But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence through the Gate of Tears.-+ And where was stern Al Hassan then ? Could not that saintly scourge of men *® “The Easterns used to set out on thcir longer voyages with music.” + ‘‘The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, called Babel- andeb. It received this name from the danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean.”THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there ? No—close within, in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer, he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood, With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snuffs his food In the still warm and living breath ! * While o’er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,— As a young bird of Babylon, Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstain’d By the red hands that held her chain’d. And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks? The flowers she nursed—the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves— Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells ; Her birds’ new plumage to behold, And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left, all filleted with gold, Shooting around their jasper fount.+— Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary In her own sweet acacia bower.— Can these delights, that wait her now, Call up no sunshine on her brow ? No—silent, from her train apart,— As if even now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom,— She sits, all lovely in her gloom As a pale angel of the grave; And o’er the wide, tempestuous wave, Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow’s sun ! <‘ Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou, So loved, so lost, where art thou now? Foe-—Gheber—infidel— whate’er * “T have bcen told that, whensocver an animal falls down dead, one or more vuitures,; unseen before, instantly appear.” + “The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known hy fillets of ¢old which she raused to be put round them.” - vind ee F proses Sinead cake ett Sieh eed iaktes., ae alt Sem py eran le fete ee st ehthidth bth asta bale iT Tae eee reat oars ora, poor sae een et aaHi aga Oris tee ee ee ad sepa sage ee ee eee See ee aos ees ? rere Cael Rote ee ee ee. ee eee ere a ie palm ddetemr tafe Napa peat Ssecbac she, eogasisre oo ae eee a Pihettlletdbaartccdakabtiapeal Sebeuetteeszibe: ewer ah ahaa et ee eT . asapthiteloleadbbanabeebesbiatarceseaeusaeanne se te mee ey Seer Cente nonin ied Sp ee R te Lenbhet-Pthhdey tet anders hendet wt eked ried Risnasts ke hanes mens See et ree ee a we Z , LALLA ROOKH, Th’ unhallow’d name thou’rt doom’d to bear, Still glorious—still to this fond heart Dear as its blood, whate’er thou art! Yes—Alla, dreadful Alla! yes— If there be wrong, be crime in this, Let the black waves, that round us roll, Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, Forgetting faith,—home,—father,—all Before its earthly idol fall, Nor worship even thyself above him.— For oh! so wildly do I love him, Thy Paradise itself were dim And joyless, if not shared with him !” Her hands were clasp’d—her eyes upturn’d, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain ; And though her lip, fond raver, burn’d With words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow, A holiness in those dark eyes, Which shew’d—though wandering earthward now,— Her spirit’s home was in the skies. Yes,—for a spirit pure as hers Js always pure, even while it errs; As sunshine, broken in the rill, Though turn’d astray, is sunshine still! So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one, she heeded not The rising storm—the wave that cast A moment’s midnight, as it pass’d— Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o’er her head—- Clash’d swords, and tongues that seem’d to vie With the rude riot of the sky.— But hark !—that war-whoop on the deck— That crash, as if each engine there, Masts, sails, and all were gone to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of despair ! Merciful Heaven! what can it be? "Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shudder’d as she rode O’er mountain wayes-—“ Forgive me, God ! Forgive me’—shriek’d the maid, and knelt, Trembling all over,—for she felt As if her judgment-hour was near ; While crouching round, half dead with fear, Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor stirr'd—~ When, hark !—a second crash—a third-—a THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, And now, as if a bolt of thunder Had riven the labouring planks asunder, The deck falls in—what horrors then ! Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men Come mix’d together through the chasm ;- — Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on—and some that call “Tor God and Iran!” as they fall. Whose was the hand that turn’d away The perils of th’ infuriate fray, And snatch’d her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death ? She knew not—for a faintness came Chill o’er her, and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay like a pale and scorched flower, Beneath the red voleano’s shower ! But oh! the sights and sounds of dread That shock’d her, ere her senses fled ! The yawning deck—the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above The sail, whose fragments, shivering o’er The strugglers’ heads, all dash’d with gore, Flutter’d like bloody flags—the clash Of sabres, and the lightning’s flash Upon their blades, high toss’d about Like meteor brands “—as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven or man! Once, too—but no—it could not be— ’Twas fancy all—yet once she thought, While yet her fading eyes could see, High on the ruin’d deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That yvlory of her soul,—even then, Amid the whirl-of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As, on some black and troublous night, The star of Egypt, whose proud light Never has beam’d on those who rest In the White Islands of the West Burns through the storm with looks of flame That put heaven’s cloudier eyes to shame ! * The meteors that Pliny calls ‘‘Taces.” + “The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates, ee ee rreees Coro ort aad FOS Asirue es 103 eerie? ote ere pes pon Cities Phereir rp tbiet severe Sees Seatoned eee tee spoomaniatehitctatetatstntemtstssesberetickes oe erent peeeeseecoed Peaaeesageee een seo: Sr iisLbdathadsbenbasadhiiaa bhcie na ete Due ne ee er ner erhetede ’ ements eee tihes nd Serr Peer srs ee ee Eee tt ot eet eras Socteeebeniel perenne honee Le ae ieletelecubdaichoathdandian bedeston Siederhhadhdcacbeatadebetene tee teebe Sppthiiitesie tis oalelsess a Pett Sertetheetecene el adee eee ee er ret aa Sele fe ane eee kee eee peed ot LALLA ROOKH. But no—'twas but the minute’s dream— A fantasy—and ere the scream Had half-way pass’d her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her; and she sunk, as dead ! How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone; When warring winds have died away, And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity,— Fresh as if day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn! When the light blossoms, rudely torn And scatter’d at the whirlwind’s will, Hang floating in the pure air still. Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm ;— And every drop the thunder showers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as ’twere that lightning-gem * Whose liquid flame is born of them ! When, ’stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears,— As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs ! When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all; And even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers’ hearts, when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest! Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, when Hinda woke From her long trance, and heard around No motion but the water’s sound Rippling against the vessel’s side, As slow it mounted o’er the tide.— But where is she ?—her eyes are dark, Are wilder’d still—is this the bark, * A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients ceraunium, be- ‘ause it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Ter- tullan says it has a glittering appearance, as if there lad been fire in it: and others suppose it to be the opal. ; (ISIGTS FESTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. The same, that from Harmozia’s bay Bore her at morn—whose bloody way The sea-dog tracks ?—no—strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot’s deck she lies, Beneath no rich pavilion’s shade, No plumes to fan her steeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, For awning o’er her head are flung. Shuddering she look’d around—there lay A group of warriors in the sun Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie ; And some, who seem’d but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg’d around the mast. Blest Alla! who shall save her now ? There’s not in all that warrior-band One Arab sword, one turban’d brow From her own faithful Moslem land. Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps Each. yellow vest *—that rebel hue— The Tartar fleece upon their caps t— Yes—yes—her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon’d her to Hafed’s power ;— Hafed, the Gheber !—at the thought Her very heart’s-blood chills within ; He, whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, Some minister—whom hell had sent To spread her blast where’er he went, And fling, as o’er our earth he trod, His shadow betwixt man and God! And she is now his captive, thrown Tn his fierce hands, alive, alone; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels—all enemies ! * “The Ghebers are known by a dark yellow colour which the men affect in their clothes.” + ‘The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of tbe sheep of Tartary.”et PRE EiakeasbucehanAls Fes eee eneee Lit} s Pear ae tes etait ae neat aioe Se Siobhsbh maath ssa berek ecient eaeeiesiateben - - peeraetinape uel ae. Sadiiads-etila dadtesdie bute abesh taenieapieadtipiabdn pts snokanioeph pee or Sener pashedhlh-cabiapdehiveaitasneniee Sia get ecules Pee ieee peapecret srr 5 ghee baer Baehdees een hadipedihehe sion Cote parties eee Salta ee reer ese Nader. tod hecho ees Seren eee reat poreatmearies instr tere a LALLA ROOK, What was the daring hope that then Cross’ her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That even the sternest warrior bow’d Abash’d, when he her glances caught, As if he guess’d whose form they sought. But no—she sees him not—tis gone,— The vision, that before her shone Through all the maze of blood and storm, Is fled—’twas but a phantom form— One of those passing rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which Fancy’s beams Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul! But now the bark, with livelier bound, Scales the blue wave The oars are out, and with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees—with horror sees Their course is toward that mountain hold,— Those towers, that make her life-blocd freeze, Where Mecca’s godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer’d scorpions, roll’d In their last deadly, venomous fold !- Amid th’ illumined land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood; Save where, above its awful head, -There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As ’twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be! Had her bewilder’d mind the power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man’s foot could scale that mountain’s brow ; Since ne’er had Arab heard or known Of path but through the glen alone,— But every thought is lost in fear, When, as their bounding bark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them toward those dismal. caves That from the deep in windings pass Beneath that mount’s volcanic mass— And loud a voice on deck commands Go lower the mast and light the brands !— the crew’s in motion--THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 107 Instantly o’er the dashing tide Within a cavern’s mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal porch Through which departed spirits go ;— Not even the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil’d below. Silent they floated—as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm, where even sound Seem’d dark,—so sullenly around ‘The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter’d it o’er the long black wave, As ’twere some secret of the grave! But soft—they pause—the current turns Beneath them from its onward track ;— Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide, all foaming, back, And scarce the oar’s redoubled force Can stem the eddy’s whirling force : When, hark !—some desperate foot has spruns Among the rocks—the chain is flung— The oars are up—the grapple clings, And the toss’d bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the shade Broke tremulous—but, ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand, that prompily ties A bandage round her burning eyes; While the rude litter where she lies, Uplifted by the warrior throng, O’er the steep rocks is borne along. Blest power of sunshine! genial Day, What balm, whad life is in thy ray ! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,— Tt were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! Even Hinda, though she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glow’d, That they had risen from darkness then, And breathed the sunny world again ! se Sepeepiett att es fer eocatien. ee od ¢ Cohetiaaed itl bead heen Lae tt Rees Pree at oe oe, ad oe Seicresert r ‘ z c eer a poeta eret ep ttes ee pear ees uae hres Py ere Se ate oda kieeted F Prt ar i oe logs ay tate bint IOPeaden lhe iwia> ee eterna oe 7 : Shhislodthnchuieirssbtanbdrlidaed path doaetiitel ohn code acetylene edatabbetie : ; 2 Retr needa aets eter peek - iaeat Babsoh-chekhabtpelltes nich ldo, naubadedioecd cebepabaanaahe ta aapey tte beepers Eras nn eT eee eee uot ee eed ae ot ee aero rgaie 7 ahotersesuelence tebetener ree reer tees fesettg dou SE etabetiip-cetateeebaa Scengaschoteerasttamasaeaeetes ne ete Rett aber betes Steet ents Se tee lattice otal oben see beens aes ee 5 habe hear emeed cnn} reir 4« A frequent image among the oriental poets. warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rese-bud and the rose. LALLA ROOKH, But soon this balmy freshness fled— For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom—’ mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen’d crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thundering way ! The jackal’s cry—the distant moan Of the hyena, fierce and lone ;— And that eternal, saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As ’twere the ever-dark profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death ! All, all is fearful—even to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief to her imaginings ! Sirce never yet was shape so dread, But Fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by such sounds of horror fed, Could.frame more dreadful of her own. But does she dream ? has fear again Perplex’d the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering near— “Tremble not, love, thy Gheber’s here ?” She does not dream—all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, “Thy Gheber’s here.” "Twas his own voice—she could not err— Throughout the breathing world’s extent There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! Oh! sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel’s lay Open her bosom’s glowing veil,* Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one! Though blest, ’mid all her ills, to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile, though met on ruin’s brink Has power to make even ruin dear,— Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross’d By fears for him, is chill’d and lost. 2»? ‘The nightingales TELLIER FBI Ts PSE 18) &-A. Sresarsyetes te Ps o ES Bo Be be 85 85 ts" POET RSG A Rie ROR SESTITE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, How shall the ruthless Hafed brook That one of Gheber blood should look, With aught but curses in his eye, On her—a maid of Araby— A Moslem maid—the child of him Whose bloody banner’s dire success Has left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness ! And, worse than all, that night of blood Which comes so fast—oh ! who shall stay The sword that once has tasted food Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover ? “Save him, my God !” she inly cries— “Save him this night—and if thine eyes Have ever welcomed with delight The sinner’s tears, the sacrifice Of sinners’ hearts—guard him this night, And here, before Thy throne, I swear From my heart’s inmost core to tear Love, hope, remembrance, though they be Link’d with each quivering life-string there, And give it bleeding all to Thee! Let him but live, the burning tear, The sighs, so sinful yet so dear, Which have been all too much his own, Shall from this hour be Heaven’s alone. Youth pass’d in penitence, and age In long and painful pilgrimage, Shall leave no traces of the flame That wastes me now—nor shall his name E’er bless my lips, but when I pray For his dear spirit, that away Casting from its angelic ray Th’ eclipse of earth, he too may shine Redeem’d, all glorious and all Thine! Think—think what victory to win One radiant soul like his from sin ;— One wandering star of virtue back To its own native, heaven-ward track ! Let him but live, and both are Thine, Together Thine—for, blest or cross’d, Living or dead, his doom is mine, And if he perish, both are lost!” The next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful into peewee ST ee Lo - ra Ove eR er ntans one pokey amb i set Stes ne ie vosbosbness — Payee oe ee os ee eee ro Potato ten ay a cc setbetesonrenepercasucnreneirirarea Peeler een Sea beens sama eet ser ne betes ae ee Sletendbindeiiohenh maieadiatech eekes eee, parents Com ter etwen eae ake eee eel ey een tenctiaes “ habhehebinnd bb aabaikenn Diptbbdalethadidceintdy nthe haste be dete ae ne 110 LALLA ROOKH. rest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had com- pletely removed every trace of it from her mind—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided them- selves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk, dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. continued his profane and seditious story thus :— To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas That lay beneath that mountain’s height Had been a fair, enchanting sight. "Twas one of those ambrosial eves A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting—when the Wess Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes Of some meek penitent, whose last, Bright hours atone for dark ones past, And whose sweet tears, o’er wrong forgiven, Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven ! Twas stillness all—the winds that late Had rush’d through Kerman’s almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,* Now, lull’d to languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam, Limpid, as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream. And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, Look like those Peri isles of light, That hang by spell-work in the air. But vainly did those glories burst On Hinda’s dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs—when, scowling near, The searchers of the grave > appear,— wind, they leave for those who have not any, or for travellers,” 70) Searchers of the Grave I nr won armen - eared taper a urenes “ Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the poet * “In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the + “The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called ‘TheShe, shuddering, turn'd to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flash’d around; And saw those towers all desolate, That o’er her head terrific frown’d, As if defying even the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear— Strange, mocking dream! again ’tis fled. And oh! the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run, When voices from without proclaim, “ Hafed, the Chief’””—and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name! He comes—the rock resounds his tread-- How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not Yeman’s boldest sons can bear ? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake’s charnel leaves at night !* How shall she bear that voice’s tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter’d, like some vast caravan, When, stretch’d at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger’s yell! THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Til | | | | | | Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o’er her fiercely now; And shuddering, as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band. Never was pause so full of dread; Till Hafed, with a trembling hand, Took hers, and, leaning o’er her, said, “ Hinda !”—that word was all he spoke, And ’twas enough—the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest— Breathless with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wondering eyes To hide them on her Gheber’s breast ! "Tis he, ’tis he—the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-Fiend’s brood, * “The Arabians call the mandrake ‘The Devil’s Candle,’ on account of its shining appearance in the night,” 0 od eee . ata My fret dectecet treat MEE Ty de Peete beer that boat J mee ees lead es ee rene eet eer rh erbr ener eenca teal eertaeee pita eesOTe So basiastedtasediaaadebtiehcesmmateeteteaatorsabedenit cua cen eRe ie ERE aR conned : % rapes eneesreee seas ee ee Si pciSIELL scabs spmttogcestenenetcat eepepeeaeecnstes ve rasanned eceses ebdabeaedhéstambibaubaoetae 3 — . Sei Peete eee art LALLA ROOKH, Hafed, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,— Ts her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smiled In her lone tower, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believed her bower had given Rest to some habitant of heaven ! Moments there are, and this was one, Snatch’d like a minute’s gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom’s eclipse— Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater’s burning lips, Sweetening the very edge of doom ! The past—the future—all that fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last ! Even he, this youth—though dimm’d and gone Each star of hope that cheer’d him on— His glories lost—his cause betray’d Iran, his dear-loved country made A land of carcases and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves !— Himself but lingering, dead at heart, To see the last, long-struggling breath Of liberty’s great soul depart, Then lay him down, and share her death Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, With doom still darker gathering o’er hii, Yet in this moment's pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him, Beaming that blest assurance, worth All other transports known on earth, That he was loved—well, warmly loved— Oh! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture, kindling out of woe ;— How exquisite one single drop Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of misery’s cup—how keenly quaff’d, Though death must follow on the draught! She too, while gazing on those eyes That sink into her soul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Whom fancy cheats into a smile, Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while! The mighty ruins where they stood, Upon the mount’s high rocky verge, Lay open towards the ocean’s flood; Where lightly o’er th’ illumined surge Many a fair bark that all the day Had lurk’d in sheltering creek or bay Now bounded on and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight’s star Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, Where still with lingering glories bright,— As if to grace the gorgeous west, The spirit of departing light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him, ere he wing’d his flight. Never was scene so form’d for love! Beneath them, waves of crystal move In silent swell—heaven glows above, And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven! But ah! too soon that dream is past— Again, again her fear returns ;— Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizcn burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea has died away. Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts—then wildly cries, “ At night, he said—and, look, ’tis near— Fly, fly—if yet thou lovest me, fly— Soon will his murderous band be here, And I shall see thee bleed and die,— Hush !—heardst thou not the tramp of meu Sounding from yonder fearful glen ?— Perhaps even now they climb the wood— Fly, fly—though still the west is bright, He’ll come—oh ! yes—he wants thy blood— I know him—he’ll not wait for night!” In terrors even to agony She clings around the wondering Chief ;~- “ Alas, poor wilder’d maid! to me Thou owest this raving trance of grief, Lost as I am, nought ever grew Beneath my shade but perish’d too— ot Fessbbipet it Sad Ls oe tedcer eee eee ere pile eter eee ee ke. ee ee ees raven nares at a “ Chee tats esemeanse ne abe Labs | chekhalllieiie aoe Petit Pe pen tetecbeehh ot tke 2 Siekehesttetinethektem pono stereo oe Ret ener obaaed ene teedened Esser bs oe > Arages es ee eT ett at ee poe eres Aree oad 3 Bai steeeaka nebmekient ae peepee eer nenortee-4 LALLA ROOKH., My doom is like the Dead Sea air, And nothing lives that enters there! Why were our barks together driven Beneath this morning’s furious heaven ? Why, when I saw the prize that chance Had thrown into my desperate arms,— When, casting but a single glance Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, I vow’d (though watching viewless o'er Thy safety through that hour's alarms) To meet th’ unmanning sight no more— Why have I broke that heart-rung vow 2 Why weakly, madly meet thee now ?— Start not—that noise is but the shock Of torrents through yon valley hurl’d— Dread nothing here—upon this rock We stand above the jarring world, Alike beyond its hope—its dread— In gloomy safety, like the dead ! Or, could even earth and hell unite In league to storm this sacred height, Fear nothing thou—myself, to-night, And each o’erlooking star that dwells Near God will be thy sentinels ;— And, ere to-morrow’s dawn shall glow, Back to thy sire——” “To-morrow !—no—” The maiden scream’ d— thou’lt never see To-morrow’s sun—death, death will be The night-cry through each reeking tower, Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour ! Thou art betray’ d—some wretch who knew That dreadful glen’s mysterious clew— Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, *tis true— Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ; This morning, with that smile so dire He wears in joy, he told me all, And stamp’d in triumph through our hall, As though thy heart already beat Its last lifethrob beneath his feet! Good heaven, how little dream’d I then His victim was my own loved youth !|— Fly—send—let some one watch the glen— By all my hopes of heaven ’tis true!” Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray’d.THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, He felt it—deeply felt—and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So mazed and motionless was he ;— Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute marble habitant Of the still halls of Ishmonie ! * But soon the painful chill was o’er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look’d from his brow in all the rays Of her best, happiest, grandest days; Never, in a moment most elate, Did that high spirit loftier rise ;— While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal-lights of Fate Were shining in those awful eyes! ’Tis come—his hour of martyrdom In Iran’s sacred cause is come}; And though his life has pass’d away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall his death-hour leave a track Of glory, permanent and bright, To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret,—and by its light Watch through the hours of slavery’s night For vengeance on the oppressor’s crimes ! This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior sons, and tell The wondering boys where Hafed fell, And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country’s ancient fanes, Never—while breath of life shall live Within them—never to forgive Th’ accursed race, whose ruthless chain Has left on Iran’s neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again ! Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on Hafed’s brow ; And ne’er did saint of Issa >| gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, * For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it d there are many statues of men, women, &., to be seen to this day, vide Perry’s ‘‘ View of the Levant.” + Jesus. re pebthdtietetes tbe. ot ‘ he er Th ar ted tort rns, peers wore skate ee oe Be tatpeter aaae LS ate wate , oo . Nene ee De eek ee eee re eer ene H . deren tgedenttiterabet tdetetin erhalten me Aa Pesan, —— wee irdlb>ahc behabetebealthoehah-dabhoebtadhacnanbieadbiantcs Ledtesa oa vere "9 Bohecstultbstimcs s thhiadehie bd tht unit ae eee ee eee cet eretiet pape - Ran’ Pribetdpoher Reade eed one ee a es eon betas ostee mee ato sa Spelt et eet — Nene Lo betel ta ee rd LALLA ROOKH, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half lighted by the altar’s fire, Glimmers,—his destined funeral pyre ! Heap’d by his own, his comrades’ hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God’s shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o’er— The few to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn’d The death-flames that beneath him burn’d ! * With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where’er it bends— Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? What plans he now? what thinks or dreams? Alas! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear ? “‘Hafed, my own beloved lord, ” She kneeling cries—‘“ first, last adored! If in that soul thou’st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion’d swore, Here, on my knees that never knelt To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly— Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh. Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither Can waft us o’er yon darkening sea Hast, west,—alas, I care not whither, So thou art safe, and I with thee! Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine. The world’s a world of love for us! On some calm, blessed shore we’ll dwell, Where ’tis no crime to love too well ;— Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin—or, if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day, : x <«The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great prophet, was thrown into the fire, by order of Nimrod, the flame turno. instantly into ‘a bod of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.’ ” SSLULSEAUIL ILI |THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Thou, for my sake, at Alla’s shrine, And I—at any God’s, for thine!” Wildly these passionate words she spoke— Then hung her head, and wept for shame; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke With every deep-heaved sob that came. While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame, His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame, And Iran’s self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees, Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not, if Hope a while Dawn’d in his soul, and threw her smile O’er hours to come—o’er days and nights Wing’d with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share! A tear or two, which, as he bow’d To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn’d him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o’er his soul. Starting, he brush’d the drops away, Unworthy o’er that cheek to stray ;— Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dew of night, That had but dimni’d, not stain’d its light, Yet though subdued th’ unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger’d still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray‘d, Half thought the hero’s soul was grown. As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and bless’d him, while he said,— “Yes—if there be some happier sphere, Where fadeless truth like ours is dear ;-— If there be any land of rest For those who love and ne’er forget, Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest Well meet in that calm region yet! ” Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn * hung, and blew LZ - “Phe shell called Silankos, comzoon to India, Africa, and the Mediter- Fr i element ae tare oe ag ery e amatet ee = - Se eer tere rarer Petesiived in ote fs pr - °ard F oe et a eet | re aeareret § | we sist Ae ete ait * 118 LALLA ROOKH, A signal, deep and dread as those The Storm-Fiend at his rising blows.— Full well his chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew ; For ’twas th’ appointed warning-blast Th’ alarm to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast ! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Has hung his sea-horn many an hour Ready to sound o’er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free. They came—his chieftains at the ‘call . Came slowly round, and with them all— Alas, how few !—the worn remains Of those who late o’er Kerman’s plains Went gaily prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun— And as their coursers charged the wind, And the white ox-tails stream’d behind,* Looking as if the steeds they rode Were wing’d, and every chief a god! How fallen, how alter’d now! how wai : Each scarr’d and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came; How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame To light their torches as they pass’d! "Twas silence all—the youth had plann’d The duties of his soldier-band; And each determined brow declares His faithful chieftains well know theirs. ” ne ee ee oe But minutes speed—night gems the skies— And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes, That look from heaven, ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group Her litter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet ;— s pit ietheeeedibereetete ett hen en terres lehman Dokl ode Goae tot ranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giv- ing sionals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound.” s * «The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen that are to be found ix some places of the Indies.” fat hoe eeTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. And now the youth, with gentle care, Has placed her in the shelter'd seat, And press’d her hand—that lingering press Of hands, that for the last time sever ; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, When that hold breaks, is dead for ever. And yet to her this sad caress Gives hope—so fondly hope can err! Twas joy, she thought, joy’s mute excess— Their happy flight’s dear harbinger ; "Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness— "Twas anything but leaving her. “Haste, haste!” she cried, “the clouds grew dark, But still, ere night, we ll reach the bark : And by to-morrow’s dawn—oh, bliss! With thee upon the sunbright deep, Far off, 1711 but remember this As some dark vanish’d dream of sleep ! And thou———””.. But ha !—he answere not — Good Heaven !—and does she go alone ? She now has reach’d that dismal spot Where, some hours since, his voice’s tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel Israfil’s* When every leaf on Hden’s tree Ts trembling to his minstrelsy— Yet now—oh now, he is not nigh— “Hafed! my Hafed !—if it be Thy will, thy doom this night to die, Let me but stay to die with thee, And I will bless thy loved name, Till the last life-breath leave this frame. Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid But near each other while they fade; Let us but mix our parting breaths, And I ean die ten thousand deaths ! You too, who hurry me away So cruelly, one moment stay— Oh ! stay—one moment is not much— He yet may come—for him I pray— Hafed! dear Hafed! ” All the way In wild lamentings that would touch A heart of stone she shriek’d his name To the dark woods—no Hafed came ;— No—hapless pair—you ’ve looked your last; Your hearts should both have broken then: * «The angel Israfil, who has the mos melodious voice of all God’s erea- tures.”—Sale. ee Rete ike taht indi oes eshabree teseeeeaneees ol ween Oe ade adl — mee cede Lease id deb ett bed edhe ae Gee Ue ee ; Lev egey- nine aha be tephra rehome ayers trina ie ee pastheenebhiieaiblobtepalieadteaeatindsanderdoetenaaiad ete ee ee — pesado Petieterec or erers Ses erat Se identical edition th tel oe oye ve Seae ened ere at orsner eth. wks ee a on at bene eet LALLA ROOKEH, The dream is o’er—your doom is cast— You’ll never meet on earth again ! Alas for him, who hears her cries !— Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fix’d and feverish eyes The glimmer of those burning brands That down the rocks, with mournful ray, Light all he loves on earth away ! Hopeless as they who, far at sea, By the cold moon have just consign’d The corse of one, loved tenderly, To the bleak flood they leave behind ; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o’er that cheerless grave. But see—he starts—what heard he then? That dreadful shout !—across the glen From the land side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd Of fearful things that haunt that dell, Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout! ** They come—the Moslems come !”—he cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes,— “Now, spirits of the brave, who roam Enfranchised through yon starry dome, Rejoice— for souls of kindred fire Are on the wing to join your choir!” He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, re-climb’d the steep And gain’d the shrine—his chiefs stood round— Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. And hark !—again—again it rings ; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm—oh! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp’d, their eyes of flame Turn’d on their chief—could doubt the shame, Th’ indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still? He read their thoughts—they were his owu— “What! while our arms can wield these blades, EVVELEPILALII SIS er ie oe oe ee eeTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, Shall we die tamely? die alone? Without one victim to our shades, One Moslem heart where, buried deep, The sabre from its toil may sleep? No—God of Iran’s burning skies! ‘Thou scornst th’ inglorious sacrifice. No—though of all earth’s hope bereft, Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. We'll make yon valley’s reeking caves Live in the awe-struck minds of men, Till tyrants shudder when their slaves Tell of the Ghebers’ bloody glen. Follow, brave hearts !—this pile remains Our refuge still from life and chains; But his the best, the holiest bed, Who sinks entomb’d in Moslem dead !” Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, While vigour more than human strung Each arm and heart.—Th’ exulting foe Still through the dark defiles below, Track’d by his torches’ lurid fire, Wound slow, as through Golconda’s vale The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need—so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, Cross’d the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untamed and fearless like themselves ! There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem’s way ;— Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning’s sky Had fill’d the narrow chasm breast-high, And, on each side, aloft and wild, Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled, The guards, with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain shrines. Here, at this pass, the scanty band Of Iran’s last avengers stand ;— Here wait, in silence like the dead, And listen for the Moslem’s tread, So anxiously the carrion bird Above them flaps his wing unheard ! eter netaa hs tint) eerie rtd eer oe | een ot eres ae5 POM AE EMU re ehdalebantbedtel z sii. Rpecen nee cietet acs penrne noes rere ee Fe ee ee eT Coe rr s sahehdieadaabiihdietaddhetidehtaddbdeaetaiclibadaien tol eid. Up hinnne ie ke eat ae aaa “tare deer en S335. ute gee bhai hinaiiedih tlh adurteaeda daboainhetonmmeeibe ee ecanmel — verte Sobccctetts ate tet, eeieh et teteie heh tet ee ete setihenmahesek bie erst ane tet Loan ess Cee ee ee ee aa watt Skee ada bed ary Recdend eel Rin Pie LALLA ROOKH. They come—that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now—if e’er your blades Had point or prowess, prove them now— Woe to the file that foremost wades ! They come—a falchion greets each brow, And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o’er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in Hafed’s band, . So fierce their toil, hath power to stir But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs, cloge’d with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier weleome—never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations pour’d ! All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quench’d brands, that o’er the flood Lie scatter’d round and burn in blood, What ruin glares! what carnage swims! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that, dropp’d from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand ;— Yretches who wading, half on fire From the toss’d brands that round them fly. ’Twixt flood and flame, in shrieks expire ;— And some who, grasp’d by those that die, Sink woundless with them, smother’d o’er In their dead brethren’s gushing gore ! But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed !-— Countless as towards some flame at night The North’s dark insects wing their flight, And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour— Tull, bridged with Moslem bodies o’er, Tt bears aloft their slippery tread, And o’er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway ! on they pass.— Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, What hope was left for you? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes— Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew, And burn with shame to find how fewTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 123 Crush’d down by that vast multitude, Some found their graves where first they stood ; While some with harder struggle died, And still fought on by Hafed’s side, Who, fronting to the foe, trod back Towards the high towers his gory track; And, as a lion, swept away By sudden swell of Jordan’s pride From the wild covert where he lay,* Long battles with th’ o’erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay, And kept both foes and fate at bay ! But whither now? their track is lost, Their prey escaped—guide, torches gone— By torrent-beds and labyrinths cross‘d, The scatter’d crowd rush blindly on—- ‘Curse on those tardy lights that wind,” The panting ery, “so far behind— Oh for a bloodhouna’s precious scent, To track the way the Gheber went!” Vain wish—confusedly along They rush, more desperate as more wrong: Till, wilder’d by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, _ And down the darkling precipice Are dash’d into the deep abyss ;— Or midway hang, impaled on rocks, A banquet, yet alive, for flocks | Of ravening vultures,—while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell. Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear, That e’er shall ring in Hafed’s ear,— Now reach’d him, as aloft, alone, Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resign’d, as if life’s task were o’er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And Iran’s self could claim no more. One only thought, one lingering beam Now broke across his dizzy dream Of pain and weariness—'twas she His heart’s pure planet, shining yet * “Tn this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, wild beasts are wont to harbour, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the river gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, ‘ He shall come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan.’ ——Maundrel’s Aleppo. Li Ser, ay eta ae ge. 4 pti Marth ede Tee aoe Te ites Shea oe CRYisreryyeteetsean ss er vetirt “ Reece pane eons Itc : ow erecgnese sy peed eres peer ee tS or errr OT Tt oahu ee eee Geert ie maeA , , ereeeret rer tre TT TT Te ion PRES ICseeede Pete 9 eee esa 28 egciietitity iy Cade TEE OER id eis" Eves hashes ee +e be - beers eae “gee wroeehy eePe re he £3 Foo Sa Bet 23, 42h? is Pa tHe | cmd Peeri sts * +s A ‘ a ‘a: St lee 2 pak A gh alee neon at ts ee ermmmmnsere Leliaemets FA Tn AI ee tee Fea poate reeets S34 Seen LoCo hee nenry a eeneen e Ss ahem thet th tnd, eaektideheh cea aniivaahioeoch eiceeeine ecckiiee ene eet iia pala eth det mtn nae np nttertenmtenat tat fear thted 1 ~ br aencncens Seca ears See aes eee ee te aks tee et eee babies ROM Moe erat eee eee eS mens : oer eee em, res Sa PN rt cena Setiobbeaetodbetieniont os Ee nnie-serinhapnacrennnaeonnt A thdsediiteaih stilibeh cee Sesto peer etestts Cote os er See onan anes. patentee eras iene eee Fe ge nt 5 a LALLA ROOKH. Above the waste of memory, When all life’s other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seem’d as if each thought that stain’d, Hach fear that chill’d their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain’d Between him and her glory cast ;— As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given, And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o’er itself from heaven ! A voice spoke near him—’twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From that short night’s tremendous strife. “ And must we then, my Chief, die here ?— Foes round us, and the shrine go near !” These words have roused the last remains Of life within him—“ What! not yet Beyond the reach of Moslem chains !” The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage—with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasp’s his comrade’s arm, now grown ven feebler, heavier than his own, And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heardst their vow } They mount—they bleed—oh save them now-— The crags are red they’ve clamber’d o’er, The rock-weed’s dripping with their gore— Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length, Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength — Haste, haste—the voices of the foe Come near and nearer from below— One effort more—thank Heaven! ’tig past, They ’ve gain’d the topmost steep at last. And now they touch the temple’s walls, Now Hafed sees the Fire divine— When lo !—his weak, worn comrade falls Dead on the threshold of the shrine. “Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! And must I leave thee withering here, The sport of every ruffian’s tread, The mark for every coward’s spear? No, by yon altar’s sacred beams!” He cries, and, with a strength that seems Not of this world, uplifts the frame ESTVEVIVERL SLATS tw ee PETE CT Se er oe Eb Ee ty BS Be Sh Eo | eat Lae aTITE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, Of the fallen chief, and towards the flame Bears him along ;—with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand, And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o’er Oman’s Sea.— ‘““Now, Freedom’s God! I come to Thee,” The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have harm’d one glorious limb, expires ! What shriek was that on Oman’s tide? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side The death-light—and again is dark. It is the boat—ah, why delay’d ?— That bears the wretched Moslem maid; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom; But hoped when Hinda, safe and free, Was render’d to her father’s eyes, Their pardon, full and prompt, would be The ransom of so dear a prize.— Unconscious, thus, of Hafed’s fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they clear’d the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves, When the curst war-whoops, known so well. Came echoing from the distant dell— Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o’er the vessel’s side, And, driving at the current’s will, They rock’d along the whispering tide. While every eye, in mute dismay, Was toward that fatal mountain turn’d, Where the dim altar’s quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn’d. Oh! ’tis not, Hinda, in the power Of fancy’s most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour — Thy silent agony—twas such Ag those who feel could paint too well, But none e’er felt and lived to tell ! ’Twas not alone the dreary state Of a lorn spirit, crush’d by fate, paerwan eee rea ents Preeetr rae ee eee ee syeet SE LALLA ROOKH. When, though no more remains to dread, | The panic chill will not depart ;— | When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart, | No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone, | The wretch may bear, and yet live on, | Like things within the cold rock found Alive when all’s congeal’d around. But there’s a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain Now felt through ail thy breast and brain— That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonised suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching The heart hath no relief but breaking ! Ldcbtebheteictetendedibe ance ne tee Calm is the wave—heaven’s brilliant lights, Reflected, dance beneath the prow ;— Time was when, on such lovely nights, She who is there so desolate now, Could sit all cheerful, though alone, And ask no happier joy than seeing That star-light o’er the waters thrown— No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth’s yet careless breast,— Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now !—but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings—brave men ! In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark’s edge—in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath; All’s o’er—in rust your blades may lie ;—~ He, at whose word they ’ve scatter’d death, Even now, this night, himself must die! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wondering guess. what means The battle-cry at this dead hour— Ah! she could tell you—she, who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast— Too well she knows—her more than life, Her soul’s first idol and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. Serene gen een sesereaverrnesye store? padbettbenibethadaatentaokaoaceks ribo el But see—what moves upon the height ! Some signal !—’tis a torch’s light, Sere ht aracerTHE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, What bodes its solitary glare ? In gasping silence toward the shrine All eyes are turn’d—thine, Hinda, thine Fix their last failing life-beams there. "Twas but a moment—fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky, And far away o’er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent; While Hafed, like a vision, stood Reveal’d before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrined in its own grand element! “Tis he !”—the shuddering maid exclaims,— But, while she speaks, he’s seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran’s hopes and hers are o’er! One wild, heart-broken shriek she gayve—- Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix’d her dying gaze, And, gazing, sunk into the wave,— Deep, deep,—where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again ! Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) No pearl ever lay under Oman’s green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Ol! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the south * o’er a summer lute blowing, And hush’d all its music and wither’d its frame ! But long, upon Araby’s green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star }; to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. * «This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts,” + ‘‘The star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moen surrounded by rays.” ace crad Ped ei ktt Seen aa ieee te Peet ae LALLA ROOKH. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. = a . Ms oa hehe ish diilibelhdiatdh detubceicactiabdidie hhaie ba ee eke ee ee ee tea Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero! forget thee,— Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she ’ll set thee, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell !—be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; * With many a shell, in whose holiow-wreathed chamber, We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian + are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell !—farewell !—until pity’s sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They ’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They ’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. porhon Th haath eet ee eel bik Abchcedeedebdabadaebas S2sgstoScpee sete Cries ee eet The singular placidity with which Fadladeen had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and Feramorz exceedingly ; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons, who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet, in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain, to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the chabuk + would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the ery gee nope naturalists have imagined that amber is a coneretion of the tears ot birds.” t ‘‘The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire.” t ‘‘ The application ot whins or rods.” ESEVIR PUL Peete ieee. 31 .LALLA ROOKH, 129 dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigour on the occasion, (that is, if he did not gave the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fadladeen,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in _ Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the plea- sure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such un- usual satisfaction through his features, and made his eyes shine out, like poppies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness ‘of that countenance. Having decided upon the poet’s chastisement in this manner, he __ thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they assembled next evening in the pavilion, and | Lalla Rookh expected to see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one by one, in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian Queen,—he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying, with an ironical smile, that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passing off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master Aurungzebe,—the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who, among other great things he had done for mankind, had given to him, Fadladeen, the very pro- fitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,* and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. They were now not far from that forbidden river, beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdual, which had always been a favourite rest- place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, wandered with | his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal; and here would Lalla Rookh have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world, for Feramorz and love in this sweet lonely valley. The time was now fast approaching when she must see him no _ longer,—or see him with eyes whose every look belonged to another; and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of his journey, indeed she had sunk into a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minsérel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment was an age of pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy,—resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge, * His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. Ifany of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came within its bounds, + The Attock.ott iedeae oe i podadeeabhodaele ele er ee neta We tetaend — aot a ei ” , ae ae eee te Teed Sick sieht Diode pdabadbeheeh aenauainane ee as en a i y i A ee wae ai. ‘ 130 who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.* The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young roes over the romantic plains of Tibet. While Fadladeen, besides the spiritual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley is named, had opportunities cf gratifying, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards, which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill ;—taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers ! About two miles from Hussun Abdual were those Royal Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookh all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, “ It was too delicious ;”—and here, in listening to the sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talk- ing of the Sultana Nourmahal,—the Light of the Haram,*—who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,—the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the recon- cilement of a sort of lovers’ quarrel, which took place between her end the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the sweet strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and Feramorz had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh’s little Persian slave, and thus began :— LALLA ROOK. * The star Soheil or Canopus. ¢~ Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram, She was afterwards called Neuxjehan, or the Light of the World.hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the lake.” THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, THE LIGHT OF THE HARAN, Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,* Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clea As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o’er the lake Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes !— When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown ; And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight,—when mellowly shines The light o’er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale’s hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away ; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen trees till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And day with its banner of radiance unfurl’d, Shines in through the mountainous portal > that opes, Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world! - But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer’s ray, Did the sweet valley shine so gay As now it shines—all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night! A happier smile illumes each brow, With quicker spread each heart uncloses, * «The rose of Cashmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of odour, has long been proverbial in the East.” t “The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mohammedans on this vm a Berane aye 8tetra. Eataedentnoneeet ee mea ears meen Rete eee ee era e ees Sddnthenelbad hekpbiagaeadeseaanepeederkatheatanstbededaonela nee eae mele hen Meek to , ‘ - weer or aT seanpebebeietZOSSScGcRsactes7 thd sobs poate er Aree Sidonisseahohttatameneteainnhe oA are Ss ppeoy pe feecetemere pet sarah" Plas ateeeee es ater tess Ble ristss bette ae phenchins se nae “Cee pee Searle teeleteRetaiec-4c., 0s ar ee res wile iets” wtag LALLA ROOKH. And all is ecstasy,—for now The valley holds its Feast of Roses.* That joyous time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and in their shower Hearts open, like the season’s rose,— The floweret of a hundred leaves, ixpanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the lake, serene and cool, When day had hid his sultry flarne Behind the palms of Baramoule. When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh’d from their embroider’d beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad—the busiest hive On Bela’st hills is less alive When saffron beds are full in flower, Than look’d the valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play’d Through every grove and island shade ; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret ; And fields and pathways, far ana near, Were lighted by a blaze so clear, That you could see, in wandering round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ; And there were glancing eyes about, And cheeks that would not dare shine out In open day, but thought they might Look lovely then, because twas night ! And all were free, and wandering, And all exclaim’d to all they met That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet ;— The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which bless’d them there ; The roses ne’er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look’d half so fair. And what a wilderness of flowers! Tt seem’d as though from all the bowers * “The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom.” + Mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or ‘“M emoirs of Jehan-Guire,” where there is an account of the beds of saffron flowers about Cashmere.THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scatter’d here, The lake, too, like a garden breathes, With the rich buds that o’er it lie— As if a shower of fairy wreaths Had fallen upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,—the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet ;— The minaret-cryer’s chant of glee Sung from his lighted gallery,* And answer'd by a ziraleet From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet ji— The merry laughter, echoing From gardens where the silken swing Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange grove; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents that line the way, Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other ! And the sounds from the lake,—the low whisp’ring in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight ;—the dipping of oars, And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of Kathay utter’d music, and gave An answer in song to the kiss of each wave ! + But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,— Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power Of a lute anda sigh in this magical hour. Oh! best of delights, as it everywhere is, To be near the loved one,—what a rapture is his, Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O’er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side ! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere ! So felt the magnificent Son of Achar, + When from power and pomp and the trophies of war * “Tt is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illumin- ated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a zira- leet or joyous chorus.” t “The ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached : ome of them, und being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them.” {t Jehan-Guire, the son of the Great Acbex. Spe he peony rere ae pre ernee yb tae rag rt peyereerr Lot cote!or | P Fenn O00 444) meee HUY: ie ae é Can ta se el he Raat. hes ad So eos Ath bg Ma Te Sod gee Ee 2 ee bad ae ae — padepeteaabess anther aurgesptasesbsb tote saeeteareoeado seeded irae Ae Sato Nanas tateeanae eh a Pe pag pernee ay terse ner eh pares 2 yoo nererecmsse eigen: Srerewes PR teehee npg mutica tee Reeneatiaiihareniinte aan OS er eencient Secribes a F idde thee eee * SS a woe: eit APH fy H HS BBE: seeeies 134 LALLA ROOKH. He flew to that valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal. When free and uncrown’d as the conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr’d in his heart the least ringlet that curl’d Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world! There ’s a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer’s day’s light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty—oh ! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn’s soft shadowy days, _ Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the check to the eyes, Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams! When pensive, it seem’d as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry —for even in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes— The short, passing anger but seem’d to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch’d her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth—oh ! ‘twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring ;—~ Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages." While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten’d all over,— Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave Nourmahal the proud Lord of the Hast for her slave 5 And though bright was his Haram,—a living parterre Of the flowers | of this planet—though ‘reasures were there, ® Tn the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners “they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees.” _ + In the Malay language the same word significs women and flowers. - Soe ze Ria bo eDeGa Sb Bb 8 Beeebeetct. & 7 A Se eek esTHE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. For which Solomon’s self might have given all the store That the navy from Ophir e’er wing’d to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal ! But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart’s employ ?— When all around her is so bright, So like the visions of a trance, That one might think, who came by chance Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight * In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers !— Where is the loved Sultana? where, When mirth brings out the young aid fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now ? Alas—how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts thad love ! Hearts that the world in vain has tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity ! A something light as air—a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken— Oh! love that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words be And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship’s smiling day ; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds,—or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain’s brow, As though its waters ne’er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever. : coin: ou O you, that have the charge of love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, * The capital of Shadukiam. Crane Nr Reet Sees eet Perna | ata tat oN een annem. Se eepeere pen sere eran’ proneriee ria e et er niint tt iny peAN Pe Tne Pry heeseh mene, os " wiprhea: - ;. the hh Eh ok ee ee ee ee rere i a ct peneetas ecnanee nat envssmrnhim aioumnipsaecbachapababectilabatess ester NE ci peantree Sper rie ropes peepiinn pete one Be ia Cotetetes Wet fest esberete fe tern at te bord Coeeaet ees at es i= Selbwteeeters te eccueder ek! me * eeaee pemes ri ~ eed ee eee i ep ae LALLA ROOKH, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits, with flowerets fetter’d round ;— Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings; For even an hour, a minute’s flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird—whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies— Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies ! * Some difference, of this dangerous kind,— By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven; Some shadow in love’s summer heaven, Which, though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst ;— Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the imperial lover, And far hath banish’d from his sight His Nourmahal, his Haram’s light ! Hence is it, on this kappy night, When pleasure through the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves, And every heart has found his own,— He wanders, joyless and alone, And weary as that bird of Thrace, Whose pinion knows no resting-place. In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the earth supplies Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim—though rich the spot With every flower this earth hath got, What is it to the nightingale Tf there his darling rose is not? + In vain the valley's smiling throng Worship him, as he moves along ; He heeds them not—one smile of hers Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the star’s adorers are, She is the heaven that lights the star} * “ Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch which sings sou melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour.” + “You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose.” —Janad, Lai eae eae ee. 2 oh eh ee 2 L.THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, Hence is it too that Nourmahal, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester’d bower, With no one near to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, Namouna, the enchantress ;—one O’er whom his race the golden sun For unremember’d years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow | Younger or fairer than ’tis now. Nay, rather, as the west-wind’s sigh Freshens the flower it passes by, Time's wing but seem’d, in stealing o’er To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of Namouna’s birth! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra,* which around The air’s sublimer spirits drew, To the gold gems + of Afric, bound Upon the wandering Arab’s arm, To keep him from the Siltim’s { harm. And she had pledged her powerful art, Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What ’twas to lose a love so dear, To find some spell that should recall Her Selim’s § smile to Nourmahal! ’T was midnight—through the lattice, wreathed With woodbine, many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about ;— * “He is said to have found the great Mantra spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations.” + ‘‘The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs ‘El Herrez,’ from the supposed charm they contain.” i t ‘‘A demon supposed to haunt woods, &c., in a human shape.” § The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne,Peete er taee LALLA ROOKH, When thus Namouna :—“’Tis the hour That scatters spells on herb and flower ; And garlands might be gather’d now, That, twined around the sleeper’s brow, Would make him dream of such delights, Such miracles and dazzling sights As genii of the sun behold, At evening, from their tents of gold | Upon the horizon—where they play Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, Their sunny mansions melt away ! Novy, too, a chaplet might be wreathed Of buds o’er which the moon has breathed, Which, worn by her whose love has stray’d, Might bring some Peri from the skies, | Some sprite, whose very soul is made Of flowerets’ breaths and lovers’ sighs, And who might tell oh Prsatemetctoshenesaseeats ret ener acne pk chichehahdubhn ned aienereanadpibaaaiidnrnatocheaind aot buethubs dark Le ebainanaiemiheshdtednaate ad apes “For me, for me,” Cried Nourmahal impatiently,— “Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night.” Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roes, out she flew To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight’s hallowing beams For this enchanted wreath of dreams. Anemones and seas of gold,* And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flowerets that unfold Their buds on Camadeva’s quiver ; +— The tube-rose, with her silvery light, That in the gardens of Malay Ts called the Mistress of the Night, +: So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun’s away.— Amaranths, such as crown the maids That wander through Zamara’s shades; $ And the white moon-flower, as it shows On Serendib’s high crags to those et ee coll Staaten , “‘Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold colour.” : + ‘‘The delicious odour of the blossoms of this tree justly gives i the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love.” Leak ck bas a See { “The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tuberosa) ‘Sandal Malam,’ or the Mistress of the Night.” : § ‘‘In Zamara (Sumatra) they lead an idle life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe amaranthus mostly prevails,”THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ;—~ Tu short, all flowerets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree,* That blesses heaven’s inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil + tuft, that waves lis fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert ¢ and the dead,— All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather’d by young Nourmahal, Who heaps her baskets with the flowers And leaves, till they can hold no more; Then to Namouna flies, and showers Upon her lap the shining store. With what delight th’ enchantress views So many buds, bathed with the dews And beams of that bless’d hour !—her glance Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance, She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mix’d her soul with theirs. And ‘twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flowers and scented flame that fed Her charm’d life—for none had e’er Beheld her taste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn’s dew, her roseate lip. Fill’d with the cool, inspiring smell, Th’ enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves :— ‘“‘T know where the wing’d visions dwell That around the night-bed play ; I know each herb and floweret’s bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. * “The largest and richest sort (of the ‘Jambu’ or Rose-Apple) is called ‘ Amrita,’ or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree bearing ambrosial fruit : ; S + Sweet basil, called ‘Rayhan’ in Persia, and generally found in ehureb- yaras. A { ‘In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and rosemary.” ”?Lash passers tert eee S cddhodieganmabebensnambaseecedodemtoabtadadte ie Meeker rote Mee DUM neni sheennee ——— Rp teen eore peep ros teirsetre creer eserehenscenerrsereterstrstl re sibs tchaes Piarchiactibdchhdaephanneatinga Bl aed ent Pree ert eat et eee Siedta tebetcacbacaewrictenn inom os res, feMesety are gr aes cen Rete bnsdett Dibba eetebtean tetas ee A lide aie ee. ot ot “e alt ita tg _. fh bbibddeont Seal Fai aos erp ca Sag tN tr iver Letina tke eee LALLA ROOKH. “The image of love that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour That alights on misery’s brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, That blooms on a leafless bough.* Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade, “ The visions that oft to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold Inhabit the mountain-herb,> that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—- That appal the murderer’s sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake’s stem, That shrieks when torn at night ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. “The dream of the injured, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers wil! fade.” No sooner was the flowery crown Placed on her head, than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer fall, Upon the lids of Nourmahal ;— And suddenly a tuneful breeze, As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind that o’er the tents Of Azab + blew was full of scents, Steals on her ear and floats and swells, Like the first air of morning creeping Into these wreathy, Red Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ; $— * “The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches.” t An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it. } The myrrh country. _§ ‘‘This idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea.” bo tes t3" ee nn eeTHE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, And now a spirit form’d, ’twould seem, Of music and of light, so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings, Hovers around her, and thus sings :— “ From Chindara’s * warbling fount I come, Call’d by that moonlight garland’s spell ; From Chindara’s fount, my fairy home, Where in music morn and night I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn’d, as it leaves the lips, to song! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there ’s a magic in music’s strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly ! And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too! “Mine is the charm whose mystic sway The spirits of past delight obey ;— Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like genii, hovering round, And mine is the gentle song that bears From soul to soul the wishes of love, As a bird that wafts through genial airs The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.} “Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure; When memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that’s still in the ear; And hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near! * «© fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly play- ine.” : : : + “The Pompadour pigeon, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon te difie- rent places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree.” eee peter et} olan Seren ete een ; il dstainbih.cepetee heres set Ret ehhh) Z 3 are Se eraReser sraenes td pepper weteentreeinwirte 4 met ht piepheshibcahadadhbdibaatute bo okt Liebe enc eee ai, oat eeaatan ppbtie Sires pe ipa oe gees seenes Pare ett eee ore he ee eee et oe tote te eee ict dcstcheltingioaciaibe’ eer pone s.binns Lichtetheme teint eine soe tere re Pes See Sete een a tate ta Perea t-bohace bana eetrteas eke - etek tea te rere ret updiieocnarhikee eee ee Poec Rat et ots Seber eheeiecs 4 £) th 8et oe od ee Be SES BRA SESE Se eta rata ase: * “They have two mornings, the tho false and the real day-break.” LALLA ROOKH., “The warrior’s heart, when touch’d by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone—yet moves with a breath. And oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten When music has reach’d her inward soul, Like the silent stars that wink and listen While Heaven’s eternal melodies roll ! So, hither I come From my fairy home, And if there’s a magic in music’s strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.” *Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,* As if the morn had waked, and then Shut close her lids of light again. And Nourmahal is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings— Oh, bliss !—now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial spirit’s wings ! And then, her voice—’tis more than human—- Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman to utter notes so fresh from heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine.— “Oh! let it last till night,” she cries, “And he is more than ever mine.” And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away,— For things so heavenly have such fleetness ! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows; Tul rapt she dwells on every string, And pours again each sound along, Like echo lost and languishing In love with her own wondrous song. That evening (trusting that his soul Might be from haunting love released By mirth, by music, and the bowl) Th’ imperial Selim held a feast ‘Soobhi Kazim’ and the ‘Soobhi Sadig,’THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. In his magnificent Shalimar ;— In whose saloons, when the first star Of evening o’er the waters trembled, The valley’s loveliest all assembled; All the bright creatures that, like dreams, Glide through its foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams.* And all those wandering minstrel-maids, Who leaye—how can they leave ?—the shades Of that dear valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the South Those songs that ne’er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian’s mouth. There, too, the Haram’s inmates smile ;— Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, And from the Garden of the Nile, Delicate as the roses there 3+ Daughters of love from Cyprus’ rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks; = Like Peri forms, such as there are On the gold meads of Candahar; § And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bowers, Sparkle such rainbow butterflies, || That they might fancy the rich flowers That round them in the sun lay sighing Had been by magic all set flying! Everything young, everything fair From East and West is blushing there, Except—except—O Nourmahal ! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one, whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one! Whose light, among so many lights, Was like that star, on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark for éver by ! Thou wert not there—so Selim thought, And everything seem’d drear without thee ; * “Tt ig supposed that the Cashmerians are indebted for their beauty to their waters.” ; + “The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (attached to the Emperor of Morocco’s palace,) are unequalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon.” é t ‘On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which pro- duces the most beautiful rock crystal. On account of its brilliancy, it has been called the Paphian diamond.” : : § “There is a part of Candahar called Peria, or Fairy-Land.” : | ‘Butterflies, which arc called, in the Chinese language, ‘ Flying Leaves.’ ” eaters ‘ sencaaetiset eeeWao! ote er Ce ee eT aad mee es Sori reciente te erate SaSSTATAS STE SSIES erceapecehesestee ties Adi becieddnn Seid idee wtekcemidibet kn beth ne te Ce ee 5 inh e wegen Seles wt a ete oe er tes ate eo ' pete neenmeesmiaiineiin Reatikaneieueeninreearin hem rent Se Spits h tals aebee ett tiated aera . ceetea etter See Se iene nets rt meee Seren sents = rapecereukcnemenenne ee bapa tae eee “ ere - Lete he 25 Ci oS Pee ee ee eee es) a ee ee ee a ¢ . : | ‘ nod toon sec RE DAE GE ARSE - ei 144 * “The Arabian women wear black m dered.”—Carvrert. Niebuhr mentions the tion + “The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of the Malay Islands,” tA signifying sun’s seed.” § ‘“‘Sweetmeats in a cr lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers,” & || ‘‘Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near the sea and divers bring up from it are sold at Japan.” LALLA ROOKH. But ah! thou wert, thou wert—and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, sind veil’d by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids, * — A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery,— She roved, with beating heart, around, And waited, trembling, for the minute When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it, The board was spread with fruits and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine On Casbin’s hills ;—pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears And sunniest apples that Cabul In all its thousand gardens bears, Plantains, the golden and the green, Malaya’s nectar’d mangusteen ; + Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates, and apricots, Seed of the sun, t+ from Iran’s land i— With rich conserve of Visna cherries, § Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells, All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure sandal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle | Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings, Wines too, of every clime and hue, Around their liquid lustre threw ; Amber Rosolli,—the bright dew asks with little. clasps, prettily or. ir showing but one eye in conversa- delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians ‘Tokm-ek-shems,’ ystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with c Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen an immense price in China and oy te We yh oe at 8 25 To So Bs Be G8 bo E£5 TF"THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM, From vineyards of the Green Sea gushing ; * And Shiraz wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare, The ruby for which Kublai-Khan Offer’d a city’s wealth,f was blushing, Melted within the goblets there ! And amply Selim quafts of each, And seems resolved the floods shall reach His inward heart,—shedding around A genial deluge as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrown’d, For Love to rest his wings upon. He litle knew how blest the boy Can float upon a goblet’s streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy ;— As bards have seen him in their dreams Down the blue Ganges laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath, t Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath. But what are cups without the aid Of song to speed them as they flow ? And see—a lovely Georgian maid, With all the bloom, the freshen’d glow Of her own country maidens’ looks, When warm they rise from Teflis’ brooks :£ And with an eye whose restless ray, Full, floating, dark—oh he, who knows His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray To guard him from such eyes as those !— With a voluptuous wildness flings Her snowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda, || and thus sings :— “Come hither, come hither—by night and by day We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, Another as sweet and as shining comes on, And the love thas is o’er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall’d in bliss; * The white wine of Kishma. t “The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever sccn. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for it, but the king ) answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world.”—Mazco Polo. + ‘‘The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges ) on the Nymphea Nelumbo.” § ‘‘Tefiis is celebrated for its natural warm baths,” || ‘‘The Indian syrinda or guitar.”pletsnees srarserenepee es Shae ot an ee i sehau eid Patter tate ee cre ree tenaes ast ptthadshadamndiabenie ee ke tO te te ee ee es eee oe ater oe peotereeacaes raat Serer: —T ee Reyer be ied Se ee bbe aaeninsinterceme teed Lshandlhbenmiehethadirabnaphieteruis dei: Sees tS ire ene Sat dee ee eee me reas best hechiesp ope abe gayerteee er eens ev roe iy wn Matha dhee ee ot in sn, Re Aah ee: wee iki baits Lh bel tee Lede Lk ie oe re caeeel seals deltll bette oeahah Tet LALLA ROOKH, And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, Jt is this, it is this. “Were maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee; And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, * Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss; And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. “ Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow’d by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, And forgot heaven’s stars for the eyes we have here. And, bless’d with the odour our goblets give forth, What spirit the sweets of this Hden would miss ? For oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.” The Georgian’s song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, They all stood hush’d, and wondering, And turn’d and look’d into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of Israfil,+ the angel, there ;— So powerfully on every soul That new, enchanted measure stole, While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm’d lute, was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together :— “There ’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two that are link’d in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they dic ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering Dliss ; * “The Nisan, or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produee pearls if they fall into shells.” + “The Angel of Music, who has the most melodious voice of all God’y creatures.” —Sale. a is gSTHE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. And oh! if there ge an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this,” ‘Twas not the air, ‘twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips that gave such power As music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, “Tt is the mask’d Arabian maid !” While Selim, who had felt the same Deepest of any, and had lain Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o’er, Too inly touch’d for utterance, Now motion’d with his hand for more :— “Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee; But oh! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without ? “ Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th’ acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. “ Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. “Then come—thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. “ Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart,— As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought; “ As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before as then ! oa So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years! erreur ttert teed woe y eeeen esse rare ea ee Niakid nth deed taba tabeieninemainaatiidetd rade ickakhacheiin ote Pert ee " Pees mene-ne oe Me et on ibs adue tine heeadilaitadbmmameaibabeactusdndl See Pe ees a eee eet ee Pre sampeton— mt beret ee is oo St kaebeenattebed ben pea kneaded nd sag ir wie on tet hey tie a ree rpreestretg epengy pha oe Sear tees orn 3 eens NATURE'S LABELS. A FRAGMENT. Eb -nthns- ihiehiptaanbdenesettarentet raat skint te ae fa betes oo See reer por an ee te ie: In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul’s reflection in the face; Iy vain we dwell on lines and crosses, Crooked mouth, or short probosis; thle ee Gre ket ene teed re Pea et aT ee tS ESETMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Boobies have look’d as wise and bright As Plato or the Stagirite : And many a sage and learned skull Has peep’d through windows dark and dull! Since then, though art do all it can, We ne’er can reach the inward man, Nor inward woman, from without, (Though, ma’am, you smile, as if in doubt,) I think ’twere well if Nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pretty short descriptions write, In tablets large, in black and white, Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon physic-bottles. There we might read of all—But stay— As learned dialectics say, The argument most apt and ample For common use is the example. For instance, then, if Nature’s care Had not arranged those traits so fair, Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n, This is the label she’d have pinn’d on— LABEL FIRST. Within this vase there lies enshrined The purest, brightest gem of mind! Though Feeling’s hand may sometimes throw Upon its charms the shade of woe, The lustre of the gem, when veil’d, Shall be but mellow’d, not conceal'd. Now, sirs, imagine, if you’re able, That Nature wrote a second label, They ’re her own words— at least suppose so—- And boldly pin it on Pomposo— LABEL SECOND. When I composed the fustian brain Of this redoubted Captain Vain, [ had at hand but few ingredients, And so was forced to use expedients. I put therein some small discerning, A grain of sense, a grain of learning; And when I saw the void behind, I fill’d it up with—froth and wind! ern hd Dae SaLte eee Lae H-t-bclae grrtk eet. eerie i et ee aresae: MOORE'S POEMS. on 5 ee rons e kee TO M Sweet lady! look not thus again: Those little pouting smiles recall A maid remember’d now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all! Oh! while this heart delirious took Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, i Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! Yes, I did love her—madly love— She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! And oft she swore she ’d never rove ! And I was destined to believe her! eT heen se pobre Doge ten Seen ee ose Seeder eee ese cg era na ve 8 tr Re wy hel ote mem the ees Sats are “Se ame oy Then, lady, do not wear the smile Of her whose smile could thus betray ; Alas! I think the lovely wile Again might steal my heart away. And when the spell that stole my mind On lips so pure as thine I see, I fear the heart which she resign’d Will err again, and fly to thee ! sacs aot oss ae tog echt ee paereebetatleehaahdatnnel ee eee. eee a TO JULIA. Mock me no more with love’s beguiling dreaiia, A dream, I find, illusory as sweet : One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, Is dearer far than passion’s bland deceit ! See hetenheaieted ateebeekeeien wietagebetsaeterere heres 1 ’ve heard you oft eternal truth declare; Your heart was only mine, I once believed, Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air ! And must I say, my hopes were all deceived ? eS Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined, That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal ! Julia! ’tis pity, pity makes you kind; You know I love, and you would seem to feel. a anseetee ete 7 tS shen bashes nee mbt rne pascal ot tetas ota ee Sitetetedtinadiend cmt nahin te See arn pee TO ROSA, Dors the harp of Rosa slumber ? Once it breathed the sweetest number ! cd oortetieeer ee Cates ot arate beabattia nah oie ad oe)MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Never does a wilder song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odours dying, Woos it with enamour’d sighing, Does the harp of Rosa cease ? Once it told a tale of peace To her lover’s throbbing breast— Then he was divinely blest ! Ah! but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa’s song is o’er; And her harp neglected lies; And her boy forgotten sighs. Silent harp—forgotten lover— Rosa’s love and song are over! SYMPATHY, TO JULIA. Our hearts, my love, were doom’d to he The genuine twins of sympathy : They live with one sensation : In joy or grief, but most in love, Our heart-strings musically move, And thrill with like vibration. How often have I heard thee say, Thy vital pulse shall cease to play When mine no more is moving ! Since, nov, to feel a joy alone Were worse to thee than feeling none: Such sympathy in loving ! TO JULIA; I saw the peasant’s hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever ; They seem’d in very being twined ; Yet now the oak is fresh as ever. Not so the widow’d ivy shines : Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its blooms away ! Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till fate disturb’d their tender ties : Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dieg {: mes chaos pghteaademmbabinctbacmeetiin tie ieee oar ei estud ant Ses ze SS om Ce ene ee (tl era rt csleadbeenabatbesttabticessbaeubnn Sieeetepraeereeet eettetel a ciel dette bisa tebe. 3 ae Se Sinemedindtiehdaathemdthatiniah sok ied Sree nt Sih iets Nea od teak aoetebtttagtretesss ae te ee el Ui SE eee ee pata tienen ah eb MOORE'S POEMS. ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. Sweet spirit ! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs, Oh! I will weep, in luxury weep, Till the last heart’s-drop fills mine eyes. But if thy sainted soul can feel, And mingles in our misery ; Then, then, my breaking heart I’ll seal— Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me! The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform : Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam, And death, alas! that sullen storm. Thou wert not form’d for living here, For thou wert kindred with the sky; Yet, yet we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not form’d to die ! WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY’S COMMON-PLACE BOOK. Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free ; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet has been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To write my name for ever there/ ——— TO ROSA. LIKE him who trusts to summer skies, And puts his little bark to sea, Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, Consigns his simple heart to thee. For fickle is the summer wind, And sadly may the bark be toss’d; For thou art sure to change thy mind, And then the wretched heart is lost. EGLVISPIETLIL Ax Se kA Bre tev Sess hb eo bs So ES So Sa bo a Ps tsMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, TO ROSA. WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS, TE wisest soul, by anguish torn, Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; And when the shrining casket’s worn, The gem within will tarnish too. But love’s an essence of the soul, Which sinks not with this chain of clay ; Which throbs beyond the chill control Of withering pain or pale decay. And surely, when the touch of death Dissolves the spirit’s mortal ties, Love still attends the soaring breath, And makes it purer for the skies! O Rosa! when, to seek its sphere, My soul shall leave this orb of men, That love it found so blissful here Shall be its best of blisses then! And, as in fabled dreams of old, Some airy genius, child of time, Presided o’er each star that rolld, And track’d it through its path sublime; So thou, fair planet, not unled, Shalt-through thy mortal orbit stray ; Thy lover’sshade, divinely wed, Shall linger round thy wandering way. Let other spirits range the sky, And brighten in the solar gem ; I'll bask beneath that lucid eye Nor envy worlds of suns to them ! No !—when that heart shall cease to beat, And when that breath at length is free ; Then, Rosa, soul to soul we’ll meet, And mingle to eternity ! ANACREONTIC. “In lachrymas verterat omne merum.”—Tib., lid, i., cleg. >. Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower:Cel at apestak tee ee ee i ieetaeiites ioe nati ae de nee) a eee oat Sa acct is bhchead ace ae ees eaeea od ee nendase teetred 29 Hn oo ee aden mrt a Bs -Benaih et iobrestese neers re se £90) meee swe nssavesiene, ecouctinaaesh atoms eee eee es cereeererkremmesenoe: ee a et ae Fete poe eeree tear ser eeerees en ee eat ee New . ee thd cee eee ee ae oe ee eee ee ae * ote oe arena seman Nee blodene ee ee eee torre et -_*e* ese & * MOORE'S POEMS. And while the drops my goblet steep, T’ll think—in woe the clusters weep. Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine: Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I’ll taste the luxury of woe! ANACREONTIC. FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip, *T will chase that pensive tear ; "Tis not so sweet as woman’s lip, But, oh! ’tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam, *Twill steal away thy mind: But, like affection’s dream, It leaves no sting behind ! Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade; These flowers were cull’d at noon ;— Like woman’s love the rose will fade, But, ah! not half so soon! For though the flower ’s decay’d, Its fragrance is not o’er; But once when love’s betray’d, The heart can bloom no more! “Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more !"— St John viil 78 1, LG O woman! if by simple wile Thy soul has stray'd from honour’s track, "Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back. The stain that on thy virtue lies, Wash’d by thy tears, may yet decay ; 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!” .Tots] MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, moO Mise. ——— GON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, I’xu ask the sylph who round thee flies, And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy lucent eyes, And faints upon thy sighing lips. . rok ee eee ‘sil edie a tet hia be Ye eet er es nal I’ll ask him where’s the veil of sleep That used to shade thy looks of light ; And why those eyes their vigil keep When other suns are sunk in night, 5 oh ed titamena And I will say—Her angel breast Has never throbb’d with guilty sting; Her bosom is the sweetest nest Where slumber could repose his wing. And I will say—Her cheeks of flame, Which glow like roses in the sun, Have never felt a blush of shame, Except for what her eyes have done ! Then tell me, why, thou child of air, Does slumber from her eyelids rove? What is her heart’s impassion’d care ?— Perhaps, O sylph! perhaps, ’tis love! ELEGIAC STANZAS, How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave’s silent breast ; ‘Where sorrow’s tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest. Tor, ah! my heart, how very soon The glittering dreams of youth are past ! And long before it reach its noon, The sun of life is overcast. TO JULIA. ON HER BIRTHDAY. Wuen Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given,ida bdidt small sd pais coe Sse ht ake tebe, onthe Breasts een ttt anne areas = he cot abe ee Sart Soot ir es mentale Met eine teers ont decided irre errant tesees Sobidth-ntatiobdebae teocirneeateates ro Cer ae er eee tree * Pitan tees pe beneE-nbherd pe ene ey o¢ nea -pene eet ene woe. aabeiee 2 Se Sees ia dhlee eel ween weary fee : PT ad er . “es p ne eet: , > Ore are ot sina eee t: MOORE'S POEMS. Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, Yet the flowers were all gather’d in heaven ! And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, May its verdure for ever be new ! Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, And Pity shall nurse it with dew! TO ROSA. AND are you then a thing of art, Enslaving all, and loving none; And have I strove to gain a heart Which every coxcomb thinks his own? Do you thus seek to flirt a number, And through a round of danglers run, Because your heart’s insipid slumber Could never wake to feel for one ? Tell me at once if this be true, And I shall calm my jealous breast ; Shall learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest. But if your heart be not so free,— Oh! if snother share that heart, Tell not the saddening tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art. THE SURPRISE. Cstonts, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.— “ What! love no more? Oh! why this alter’d vow ?” Because I cannot love thee more than now / THE BALLAD. Tov hast sent me a flowery band, And told me ’twas fresh from the field : That the leaves were untouch’d by the hand, And the purest of odours would yield, And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; But, if it were handled by thea. +8 he Stes er hee sesea hs Be om Oy Be ae he oe 2 es TosMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. It would bloom with a livelier air, And would surely be sweeter to me! Then take it, and let it entwine Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little floweret will shine More rich than a gem to my sight. Let the odorous gale of thy breath Embalm it with many a sigh; Nay, let it be wither’d to death, Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. And, instead of the dew that it bears, The dew dropping fresh from the tree; On its leaves let me number the tears That affection has stolen from thee! TO MRS : ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE’S KISS. How heavenly was the poet's doom, To breathe his spirit through a kiss; And lose within so sweet a tomb The trembling messenger of bliss! And, ah! his soul returned to feel That it again could ravish’d be; For in the kiss that thou didst steal, His life and soul have fled to thee ! TO A LADY, ON HER SINGING. Tuy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love Which o’er the sainted spirits steal When list’ning to the spheres above. When, tired of life and misery, I wish to sigh my latest breath, O Emma! I will fly to thee, And thou shalt sing me into death! And if along thy lip and cheek That smile of heavenly softness play,= a x . A tou 3 bart ne ey enews ae Lindahtihind htdenieadeaditindahie td nhibuhinihiinhia han eke CO ee ne Meds eee Che ate ttt Se ce eee ee gn a Sted le teleeet tented tel nnd ae pide tintin sd occas ae : me tT phen ie peg Dente Sarg rn aot Dente Peake ee eee rarer isis. te eae Mela serneb tinted (iar lc saades et i oon proper haton tng ni? MOORE'S POEMS. Which,—ah! forgive a mind that’s weak,— So oft has stolen my mind away ; Thou lt seem an angel of the sky, That comes to charm me into bliss: I'll gaze and die—Who would not die, If death were half so sweet as this? A DREAM. I rHovuaart this heart consuming lay On Cupid’s burning shrine: I thought he stole thy heart away, And placed it near to mine. I saw thy heart begin to melt, Like ice before the sun; Till both a glow congenial felt, And mingled into one! WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED “THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;” To which every one that opened tt should contribute something. TO THER BOOK OF FOLLIES. Turs tribute’s from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself! The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o’er and o’er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they loved such follies dearly ! Yet still, O book! the allusion stands : For these were penn’d by female hands; The rest,—alas ! I own the truth,— Have all been scribbled so uncouth, That Prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stain’d with blots of care; And sometimes hours of peace, I own.me aaekeeeeet omaha et rat tates een oor ed [Pepto pores corre epee ~ isbtndhcnieeeindent tole a Pes eh ier et retract nied ee ee pirat tebemetet a) et poe beast ma 292) ohana. rey he ee barry a +e Hi ss renaneousnaoeees Lectin ad ot ie avy A tie ehh PrnessccetsOre a v sr eee Ccoaad i. SI 7 Serteripraet pee seestarttecreeseteererenl Aceh oie Le ees ee ee. er eter tte ek tare eet ts a oe ey ie ee On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnieht gloom, When by the damp grave Kilen wept— Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb ! Puye 171.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that heaven By which those hours of peace were given. But now no longer—such, oh! such The blast of Disappointment’s touch !— No longer now those hours appear ; Each leaf is sullied by a tear: Blank, blank is every page with care, Not even a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ?—Never, never! Then shut the book, alas! for ever! THE THAR. On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, Wen by the damp grave Ellen wept— Sweet maid! it was her Lindov’s tomb ! A warm tear gush’d, the wintry air Congeal’d it as it flow’d away : All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glitter’d in the ray ! An angel wandering from her sphere, Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, And hung it on her diadem ! TO JULIA WEEPING. On! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair ! And I will bid your weeping cease. But if with Fancy’s vision’d fears, With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; You look so lovely in your tears, That I must bid you drop them still! SONG. HAvE you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye ? pene fete eer nr itt Setter peers ry soe Lease 2* oc 08 oe | MOORE'S POEMS. | Haye you not mark’d the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur’d sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix’d on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own ? Ries nen ih nie-ves hog steeetrenes ee ee ee revo nee basse eeaatiens S Serer: peyarervesesertes rere.’ : Sear A) fh ee eI A ” ae ei er 4 * “ ‘ . M pic aid i dkchedd eee To you my soul’s affections move Devoutly, warmly, true ; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith is o’er, If still my truth you’ll try; Alas! -I know but one proof more— I’ll bless your name, and die! ¢ peesevt=t Se eT ENN Pum Los mn THE SHIELD. et ete Tete ee ett e. oes Ou! did you not hear a voice of death ? And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silver mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ? Od Lecinih ettine Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, Which shrieks on the house of woe all night, Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light ? "Twas not the death-bird’s cry from the wood, Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast ; "Twas the shade of Helderic—man of blood— It screams for the guilt of days that are past } = ae = See! how the red, red lightning strays, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath ! Now on the leafless yew it plays, Where hangs the shield of this son of death ! That shield is blushing with murderous stains; Long has it hung from the cold yew’s spray ; It is blown by storms and wash’d by rains, But neither can take the blood away ! Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, Demons dance to the red moon’s light ; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield Sings to the raving spirit of night! Lebdaetiahiansisieashbarcdaohesbigatatiess Sop Ma ene eee Leer aes pet Pie ortees peers Peeed es ae ae, hit atnehaet eres ee sc seaPity me, love! I'll pity thee, If thou indeed hast felt like me. All, all my bosom’s peace is o’er! At night, which was my hour of calm, When from the page of classic lore, From the pure fount of ancient lay, My soul has drawn the placid balm, Which charm’d its little griefs away ; Ah! there I find that balm no more. Those spells which make us oft forget The fleeting troubles of the day, In deeper sorrows only whet The stings they cannot tear away, When to my pillow rack’d I fly, With wearied sense and wakeful eye, While my brain maddens, where, oh, where, Is that serene consoling prayer, Which once has harbinger’d my rest, When the still soothing voice cf Heaven Has seem’d to whisper in my breast, “Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven ?” No, though I stili in semblance pray, My thoughts are wandering far away ; And even the name of Deity Is murmur’d out in sighs for thee! ELEGIAC STANZAS. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER. THouGH sorrow long has worn my heart; Though every day I’ve counted o’er Has brought a new and quick’ning smart To wounds that rankled fresh before ; Though in my earliest life bereft Of many a link by nature tied ; Though hope deceived, and pleasure left ; Though friends betray’d, and foes belied; I still had hopes—for hope will stay After the sunset of delight ; So like the star which ushers day, We scarce can think it heralds night } -MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.ee ae} A eo: 5 ri thwhed eheteie & ¢ #4 Hee pes Pettus oe Pe RHEE: MOORES POEMS, T hoped that, after all its strife, My weary heart at length should rest, And, fainting from the waves of life, Find harbour in a brother’s breast. wi te emer? eo wae ere 84 : pe oe Rohentetorerenpnnpeteettrasticentes a Sa ihdtieeabelinedibiekbiathadhitebadtundenibadigk bt ke Ce ee nse That brother’s breast was warm with truth, Was bright with honour’s purest ray ; : He was the dearest, gentlest youth— Oh! why then was he torn away ? He should have stay’d, have linger’d here, To calm his Julia’s every woe; He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow. sie nens ee We saw his youthful soul expand In blooms of genius, nursed by taste; While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed. Satna We saw his gradual opening mind : Enrich’d by all the graces dear ; Enlighten’d, social, and refined, In friendship firm, in love sincere. Such was the youth we loved so well; Such were the hopes that fate denied-— We loved, but ah! we could not tell How deep, how dearly, till he died ! Close as the fondest links could strain, ‘wined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain, The heart is almost broken too! A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night! ee eee ee oo ees bite entied berkethatad oe Sr een Lane eee se eee cbthcpcnaaed ~ _f ’Tis thus the world’s obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen ! a weer eee pba nee ees tnt tata dota” Serge ne nEenasnDaoeananieeneasoere-en Siete Sete atm tee brenden ie wees ho) ee teMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ELEGIAC STANZAS, «Sic juvat perire.” WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! How sweet is death to those who weep, - To those who weep and long to die! Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flowerets deck the green earth’s breast? *Tis there I wish to lay my head, "Tis there I wish to sleep at rest! Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb— None but the dews by twilight given ! Ok! let not sighs disturb the gloom— None but the whispering winds of heaven! TO) sess, Wits all my soul, then, let us part, Since both are anxious to be free; And I wiil send you home your heart, If you will send back mine to me. We’ve had some happy hours together, But joy must often change its wing ; And spring would be but gloomy weather, If we had nothing else but spring. "Tis not that I expect to find A more devoted, fond, and true one, With rosier cheek or sweeter mind— Enough for me that she’s a new one, A. REFLECTION AT SHA. Sun how, beneath the moonbeam’s smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for a while, And murmuring then subsides to res6. Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on Time’s eventful sea ; And, having swell’d a moment there, Thus melts into eternity! peter epee 4 Peer te err ee ial tenet eae rear ero ere pty etait mrt)Sian ae ened es Se aan no se oe tet me ts pen eee te tek te ot See tk eee - = - . ee Peter Sees esibberd-naiatenel i ee te ee rte eeermegere er reryreners Siete ae ret Pett Enehie Sabie eotebdeeeketeetenion ease i Po Parte a er ppbol onadas +) ireee Pe kway hale dieting on ll ee ee Be Oe eee Penn eee ne ar ae ei Pera ore" . mn oe ae mma enna pried ae ees % Naiek bad hot reper ero ed haute Ue ‘ MOORE'S POEMS. Comes, tell me where the maid is fourid, Whose heart can love without deccit, And I will range the world around, To sigh one moment at her feet. Oh! tell me where’s her sainted home, What air receives her blessed sigh, A. pilgrimage of years I’ll roam T’o catch one sparkle of her eye! And if her cheek be rosy bright, While truth within her bosom lies, I'll gaze upon her morn and night, Till my heart leave me through my eyes Show me on earth a thing so rare, I’ll own all miracles are true; To make one maid sincere and fair, Oh! ’tis the utmost Heaven can do! SONG, Sweetest love! I’ll not forget thee. Time shall only teach my heart, Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle as thou art! Farewell, Bessy ! Yet, oh! yet again we’ll meet, love, And repose our hearts at last : Oh! sure ’twill then be sweet, love, Calm to think on sorrows past. Farewell, Bessy ! Still I feel my heart is breaking, When I think I stray from thee, Round the world that quiet seeking, Which I fear is not for me! Farewell, Bessy ! Calm to peace thy lover’s bosom— Can it, dearest ! must it be? Thou within an hour shalt lose him, He for ever loses thee ! Farewell, Bessy !MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Lik SONG. Turk on that look of humid ray, Which for a moment mix’d with mine, And for that moment seem’d to say, “TJ dare not, or I would be thine!” ’ Think, think on every smile and glance On all thou hast to charm and move And then forgive my bosom’s trance. And tell me ’tis not sin to love! Oh! not to love thee were the sin; l’or sure, if Heaven’s decrees be done, Thou, thou art destined still to win, As I was destined to be won! SONG, WHEN Time, who steals our years away, Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay, And half our joys renew. Then, Chloe, when thy beauty’s flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour When thou alone wert fair ! Then talk no more of future gloom ; Our joys shall always last ; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! Come, Chloe, fill the genial bow], I drink to love and thee; Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou ‘lt still be young for me. And as thy lips the tear-drop chase, Which on my cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace Which sorrow leaves behind ! Then fill the bowl—away with gloom ! Our joys shall always last ; Tor hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past! « Peemterrt cicadas Pee tere eeees wit asers ee e r oe RdeMedn atl a mtn ate iss " , — ; pomee Ladhaceniiegibbpaiccanaaeane clean bch cha cee ee ee Sed ek ee ee Terns eo eee pk -ptioee mp enrnend Seeiteeee ee arte, ortre rene. om Sssblanbspuesiecenneate panes Shutetadtdhduandieddieients S Pr mepere reaper onres Spt ten eerie a. soe = 7 pe paakcann Teter! - Asta. Soe ee een dod Prete +f nina ate pe os leeuiieeea ee MOORE'S POEMS. But mark, at thought of future years When love shall lose its soul, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with my bowl! How like the bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet ; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet ! ay Then fill the bowl !—away with gloom ! Our joys shall always last; For hope will brighten days to come, And memory gild the past! REUBEN AND ROSE, A TALE OF ROMANCE. Tum darkness which hung upon Willumberg’s walls Has long been remember’d with awe and dismay ! For years not a sunbeam had play’d in its halls, And it seem’d as shut out from the regions of day ! Though the valleys were brighten’d by many a beam, Yet none could the woods of the castle illume ; And the lightning which flash’d on the neighbouring streain Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom ! “Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse ?” Said Willumberg’s lord to the seer of the cave ;— “Tt can never dispel,” said the wizard of verse, “Till the bright star of chivalry ’s sunk in the wave!” And who was the bright star of vhivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age? Tor Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page. For Willumberg’s daughter his bosom had beat, For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, Tt, walks o’er the flowers of the mountain and lawn! Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave, That darkness should cover the castle for ever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave ! She flew to the wizard,—“ And tell me, oh tell ! Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes 7” -—— a Ee eeRITC F A re iY xe ” MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Li “Yes, yes,—when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!” Twice, thrice he repeated, ‘‘ Your Reuben shall rise !” And Rose felt a moment’s release from her pain; She wiped, while she listen’d, the tears from her eyes, And she hoped she might yet see her hero again! Her hero could smile at the terrors of death, When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there plunging beneath, In the lapse of the billows soon found his repose. How strangely the order of destiny falls !— Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walla, And the castle of Willumberg bask’d in the ray ! All, all but the soul of the maid was in light— There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank, Two days did she wander, and all the long night, In quest of her love, on the wide river’s bank. Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, And she heard but the breathings of night in the air; Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, And she saw but the foam of the white billow there. And often as midnight.its veil would undraw, As she look’d at the light of the moon in the stream, She thought ’twas his helmet of silver she saw, As the curl of the surge glitter’d high in the beam. And now the third night was begemming the sky, Poor Rose on the cold dewy margent reclined, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When,—hark !—’twas the bell that came deep in the wind. She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, A form o’er the waters in majesty glide; She knew ’twas her love, though his cheek was decay'd, And his helmet of silver was wash’d by the tide. Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold !— Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam; ’Twas Reuben, but ah! he was deathly and cold, And fleeted away like the spell of a dream! Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but never, ah ! never: Then springing beneath, at a billow she caught, And sunk to repose on its bosom for ever ! © ear er te tt hh tiated es edel Sipe erase ssbe deat hpudeediee eit Soba eetrebentwen isis eras ‘ ere es ties eerie mr fr be pbrreit bis meet ke tor) pe See Et bart arith treed take mas Dares pense tert a sod= nino Seradenal ss cppbdamaaitah dene diasabedohwbaiaeen a — 2 rot 5 a ib sr ae eee thei ike th ted tack ee Se Are Simp lephbeneeebetb-caiaativaetedena —— oer er ate pees ree tent brett Soon banay link lees ered st ae eee eapdannc, eames ein he eee MOORE'S POEMS, THE RING. A TALE. Tux 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 pass’d along ; And some the featly dance amused, And some the dulcet song. The younger maids with Isabel Disported through the bowers, And deck’d her robe, and crown’d her hext With motley bridal flowers. The matrons all in rich attire, Within the castle walls, Sat listening to the choral strains That echo’d through the halls. Young Rupert and his friend repaid Unto a spacious court, To strike the bounding tennis-ball In feat and manly sport. The bridegroom on his finger had 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, ‘He look’d 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 was a heathen goddess, or Perhaps a heathen queen. Upon its marble finger then He tried the ring to fit; And, thinking it was safest there, Thereon he fasten’d it, ESESLUPAUIGTEMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 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 was he shock’d 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! How sore surprised was Rupert’s mind,— As well his mind might be; “T’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 much he wonder’d what could mean So very strange a thing! The feast was o’er, and to the court He went 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; Yet was the marble hand. ungrasyd, And open as before ! He search’d the base, and all the couré, And nothing could. he find, But to the castle did return With sore bewilder’d 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 join’d their hands The hours of night advance ! Rupert almost forgets to think Upon the morn’s mischance. And here my song should leave them both, Nor let the rest be told, But for the horrid, horrid tale Tt yet has to unfold! ad on Bo hada bal Abas earth on re Senate ae eesti Rode et ee 7 Lip-binddiettiebtlinie todd Pees eer ere ai tition Let eeey coe er rr tee ieh ented mdihe phos ie ee ee eer er wee , ss echiduhheehiiphathnteaieesittaihh antiemantind Aide didedei ed onanel a: pasar ers see ad ee See eee pasruenencdcateraceeeneeaettes etebeee, ee ie aoe ineedaen. tees Seer Pe RE Reliedwe « 182 ee ay MOORE'S POEMS, Soon Rupert, ’twixt his bride and him, A death-cold carcage found; He saw it not, but thought he felt lts arms embrace him round. He started up, and then return’d, But found the phantom still; In vain he shrunk, it clasp’d him round With damp and deadly chill ! And when he bent, the earthy lips A kiss of horror gave; "Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mould’ring grave ! Ill-fated Rupert, wild and loud Thou criedst to thy wife, “Oh ! save me from this horrid fiend, My Isabel! my life!” But Isabel had nothing seen, She look’d around in vain; And much she mourn’d the mad conceit That rack’d her Rupert’s brain. At length from this invisible These words to Rupert came— (And oh! while he did hear the words, What terrors shook his frame !)— “Husband! husband! I’ve the ring Thou gav’st to-day to me; And thou’rt to me for ever wed, As Iam wed to thee!” And all the night the demon lay Cold, chilling by his side, And strain’d him with such deadly grasp, He thought he should have died ! But when the dawn of day was near, The horrid phantom fled, And left the affrighted youth to weep By Isabel in bed, All, all that day a gloomy cloud Was seen on Rupert’s brows; Fair Isabel was likewise sad, But strove to cheer her spouse. At length the second night arrived, Again their couch they press’d; Poor Rupert hoped that all was o’er, And look’d for peace and rest. | ; ’MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But oh! when midnight came, again The fiend was at his side, And as it strain’d him in its grasp, With howl exulting cried,— “Husband! husband! I’ve the ring, The ring thou gay’st to me; And thou’rt to me for ever wed, As I am wed to thee !” In agony of wild despair, He started from the bed, And thus to his bewilder’d wife The trembling Rupert said— “© Isabel! dost thou not see A shape of horrors here, That strains me with a deadly kiss, And claims me as its dear?” “No, no, my love, my Rupert, I No shape of horrors see ; And much I mourn such phantasy Should e’er be thought by thee !” This night, just like the night before, In terrors pass’d away ; Nor did the demon vanish thence Before the dawn of day. Says Rupert then, “My Isabel, Dear partner of my woe, To father Austin’s holy cave This instant will I go.” Now Austin was a reverend man, Who acted wonders maint, Whom all the country round believed A devil or a saint !- To father Austin’s holy cave Then Rupert went full straight, And told him all, and ask’d him how To remedy his fate. The father heard the youth, and then Retired a while to pray ; And having pray’d for half-an-hour, Return’d, and thus did say— “There is a place where four roads meet, Which I will tell to thee; Be there this eve, at fall of night, And list what thou shalt see. " yer rarer. eee ete ey pereeneenhares Wi bdeedebian tata bees Wh eee etd eeee —" Set ae eee ees eens hs a poe a poets aod ot sehen ees ene ee enemas Sos teae-4 ret aes Hin co? aadaanadahndehenadtbataedkenentinasknetie ee eae ele eee te eae ees MOORE'S POEMS. “ Thow’lt see a group of figures pass In strange disorder’d crowd, Trav'ling by torchlight through the roads, With noises strange and loud. “ And one that’s high above the rest, Terrific tow’ring o’er, Vill make thee know him at a glance, So I need say no more. “To him from me these tablets give-— They ’Il soon be understood ; Thou needst not fear, but give them straight, I’ve scrawled them with my blood !” The nightfall came, and Rupert all In pale amazement went To where the cross-roads met, and he Was by the father sent, And lo! a group of figures came In strange disorder'd crowd, Trav'ling by torchlight through the roads, With noises strange and loud. And as the gloomy train advanced, Rupert bebeld from far A female forrn of wanton mien Seated upou a car. And Rupert, as he gazed upon The loosely-vested dame, Thought of the marble statue’s look, For hers was just the same. Behind her walk’d a hideous form, With eyeballs flashing death ; Whene’er he breath’d, a sulphur’d smoke Came burning in his breath ! Me seem’d the first of all the crowd, Terrific tow’ring o’er; “Yes, yes,” said Rupert, “this is he, And I need ask no more.” ‘hen slow he went, and to this fiend The tablets trembling gave, Who look’d, and read them with a yell That would disturb the grave. And when he saw the blood-scrawled name, His eyes with fury shine; “| thought,” cries he, “his time was out, But he must soon be mine!”MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then darting at the youth a look, Which rent his soul with fear, He went unto the female fiend, And whisper’d in her ear. The female fiend no sooner heard, Than, with reluctant look, The very ring that Rupert lost, She from her finger took. And giving it unto the youth, With eyes that breathed of hell, She said, in that tremendous voice Which he remember’d well— In Austin’s name take back the ring, The ring thou gav’st to me; And thou ’rt to me no longer wed, Nor longer I to thee.” Te took the ring, the rabble pass’d, He home return’d again ; His wife was then the happiest fair, The happiest he of men. SONG. Wuy does azure deck the sky? ’Tis to be like thy looks of blue; Why is red the rose’s dye? Because it is thy blushes’ hue. All ihat’s fair, by Love’s decree, Has been made resembling thee ! Why is falling snow so white, But to be like thy bosom fair! Why are solar beams so bright ? That they may seem thy golden hair; All that’s bright, by Love’s decree, Has been made resembling thee ! Why are nature’s beauties felt ? Oh! ’tis thine in her we see! Why has music power to melt? Oh! because it speaks like thee, All that’s sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee ! iv ONT BA bs va ee eres eae ee slash debeeabniebhtaedae et ps tbl es pests ee essa Bet Perera eee ee oe akiahiediaenamentel eae: ears: ~ Sekai ateataess te cit Pacatytetitcheertedimtion’ * oe nedtnedibiimee ecto at tt tel pe eee Siceeiinostenhadhachdedeied Cae erate Senne a 7 — Lona nr prt ne bere teh Wee ne rie) roars “? b4 eet ere te eae ene. | ee Center een eres Sear Nie MOORE'S POEMS, MORALITY. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ., M.R.LA, THoucu long at school and college dozing, On books of rhyme and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Tine recipes for forming sages ; Though long with those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake, What steps we are through life to take ; Though thus, my friend, so long employ’d, And so much midnight oil destroy’d, I must confess, my searches past, I only learn’d to doubt at last. I find the doctors and the sages Have differ’d in all climes and ages, And two in fifty scarce agree On what is pure morality ! ’Tis like the rainbow’s shifting zone, And every vision makes its own. The doctors of the Porch advise, As modes of being great and wise, That we should cease to own or know The luxuries that from feeling flow. “ Reason alone must claim direction, And apathy ’s the soul’s perfection. Like a dull lake the heart must lie ; Nor passion’s gale nor pleasure’s sigh, Though heaven the breeze, the breath supplied, Must curl the wave or swell the tide !” Such was the rigid Zeno’s plan To form his philosophic man ; Such were the modes he taught mankind To weed the garden of the mind; They tore away some weeds, ’tis true, But all the flowers were ravish’d too Now listen to the wily strains, Which on Cyrené’s sandy plains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosen’d zone, Usurp’d the philosophic throne;MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 187 Hear what the courtly sage’s * tongue To his surrounding pupils sung :— * Pleasure’s the only noble end To which all human powers shculd tend, And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, But to make Pleasure please us move ! Wisdom and she were both design’d To make the senses more refined, That man might revel, free from cloyin Then most a sage when most enjoying ! oC o we Is this morality ?—oh, no! Even I a wiser path could show. The flower within this vase confined, The pure, the unfading flower of mind, Must not throw all its sweets away Upon a mortal mould of clay; No, no ! its richest breath should rise In virtue’s incense to the skies! But thus it is all sects we sce Have watchwords of morality. Some cry out Venus, others Jove! Here ’tis religion, there ’tis love ! But while they thus so widely wander, While mystics dream, and doctors ponder; And some, in dialectics firm, Seek virtue in a middle term ; While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, To chain morality with science ; The plain good man, whose actions teach More virtue than a sect can preach, Pursues his course, unsagely blest, His tutor whisp’ring in his breast. Nor could he act a purer part, Though he had Tully all by heart ; And when he drops the tear on wee, He little knows or cares to know That Epictetus blamed that tear, By Heaven approved, to virtue dear | Oh! when I’ve seen the morning bea. Floating within the dimpled stream ; While Nature, wakening from the night, Has just put on her robes of light, Have I, with cold optician’s gaze, Explored the doctrine of those rays? * Aristippus, pekab dient rods 3 Peele nie elias Tet rrnenhrhteshds LotSas Aekeabhaedabakenedeel S osieeaalibemeient d ook tebe > — ee eee ee Seeatokpe frase Dt Ltt whee eee te ee ee ee ed cererste ee — gus lhteethntinads eer oe eeeead eetortwted ee: bpernte sae Pt atte Sapte he ale Be tot Bashevenstestestestettobersacreetectyerteterter tretinoin erates npttentl ieee ta ett Pine ere pitts tees cs eco P ¢ eh 9 ena eat rere eet hed Oy “Teeraat Bee betta dha hdent Be by MOORE'S POEMS. No, pedants, I have left to you Nicely to separate hue from hue; Go, give that moment up to art, When Heaven and nature claim the heart; And, dull to all their best attraction, Go—measure angles of refraction! While I, in feeling’s sweet romance, Look on each day-beam as a glance From the great eye of Him above, Wakening his world with looks of love! THE NATAL GENIUS. A Dream. TO ————, THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDA In witching slumbers of the night, I dveam’d I was the airy sprite That on thy natal moment smiled ; And thought I wafted on my wing Those flowers which in Elysium spring, To crown my lovely mortal child. With olive-branch I bound thy head, Heart’s-ease along thy path I shed, Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind Love’s roses, with his myrtle twined, And dew’d by sympathetic tears. Such was the wild but precious boon Which Fancy, at her magic noon, Bade me to Nona’s image pay— Oh! were I, love, thus doom’d to be Thy little guardian deity, How blest around thy steps I’d play ! Thy life should softly steal along, Calm as some lonely shepherd’s gong That’s heard at distance in the grove; No cloud should ever shade thy sky, No thorns along thy pathway lie, But all be sunshine, peace, and love! The wing of time should never brush The dewy lip’s luxuriant flush To bid its roses withering die ; Nor age itself, though dim and dark, Should ever quench a single spark That flashes from my Nona’s eye! Vr y aAt sade soe te ct tat? errs States Spee. om: on iat iemettireitee edad betes be eke See eras Sere ora taret - - ee 3 - r be eres ist 4 i a ! | . 4 A : + A i 4 - 4 4 s 4Se ereeetewe rite POsbet <9 we ee ee ees Rye eS os — Sebastes eer ih Miibidhadideedinmbedb bak ar ke ee soparataraatecisssind Ste. oe : i i ] ] iG 2) SNE SA a a area ey siuserseegeanteotreetaravselenes” Dvsyy, Dante cee ao a - ee Seta te Wan i\ WN tl \ WW) i pe eeneees ’T was there at twilight time she stole, When evening s‘ars announced the night, With him who claiin’d her virgin soul, Yo linger in that soothing light. Page 189MISCELLANEOUS POEMS THE TELL-TALE LYRE. I 'vr heard there was in ancient days A lyre of most melodious spell; ’T was heaven to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell. Twas play’d on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breathed again Tn such entrancing melodies As ear had never drunk till then ! Tot harmony’s serenest touch So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much, As they were dreams of heavenly song ! If sad the heart, whose murmuring air Along the chords in languor stole, The soothings it awaken’d there Were eloquence from pity’s soul! Or if the sigh, serene and light, Was but the breath of fancied woes, The string that felt its airy flight Soon whisper’d it to kind repose ! And oh! when lovers talk’d alone, If, mid their bliss the lyre was near, It made their murmurs all its own, And echo’d notes that Heaven might hear! There was a nymph who long had loved, But would not tell the world how well; The shades where she at evening roved Alone could know, alone could tell. Twas there at twilight time she stole, When evening stars announced the night, With him who claim’d her virgin soul, To linger in that soothing light. It chanced that in the fairy bower Where they had found their sweetost shed, This Lyre of strange and magic power Hung gently whispering o’er their head. And while the melting words she breathed On all its echoes wanton’d round, Her hair, amid the strings enwreathed, Through golden mazes charmi’d the sound !cS rouet en 7s panera ae ee pind pee ot yee vse Ser ber renew teres rn eer Po alec oe a ae eater beter nece tenons reeks on ware 2 eee ed aah ep teenie perth ad . oper nedede ikke ee a er Seren Ae ee a os Brie. eee 5 4 atte +. iciethumlind hb pdeadaa edemhadanamudiabdiohededatiaesodotoe bras Cre ee ee 190 MOORE'S POEMS, Alas! their hearts but little thought, While thus entranced they listening lay, That every sound the Lyre was taught Should linger long, and long betray ! So mingled with its tuneful soul Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswer’d stole, Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tone. Unhappy nymph ! thy name was sung To every passing lip that sighed ! The secrets of thy gentle tongue On every ear in murmurs died ! The fatal Lyre, by envy’s hand __ Hung high amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fann’d Betray'd the story of your loves ! Yet, oh !—not many a trying hour Thy gentle heart on earth was given ; Benignly came some pitying Power, And took the Lyre and thee to heayen ! Still do your happy souls attune The notes it learn’d on earth to move: Still breathing o’er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love | TO CARA, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE, 3 14D CoNCEAL’D within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew to cull her rustic food, The fruitage of the forest wild, But storms upon her pathway rise, The mother roams, astray and weeping ; Far from the weak appealing cries Of him she left so sweetly sleeping. She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, And gentler blows the night-wind’s breath ; Yet no—tis gone—the storms are keen, The baby may be chill’d to death ! Perhaps his little eyes are shaded Dim by death’s eternal chill—MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And yet, perhaps, they are not faded, Life and love may light them still. Thus when my soul, with parting sigh, Hung on thy hand’s bewildering touch, And, timid, ask’d that speaking eye, If parting pain’d thee half so much: jb I thought, and, ch! forgive the thought, For who, by eyes like thine inspired, Could e’er resist the flattering fault Of faneying what his soul desired ? Yes—I did think in Cara’s mind, Though yet to Cara’s mind unknown, T left one infant wish behind, One feeling which I call’d my own! Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, Ilow did I ask of pity’s care, To shield and strengthen in thy breast, The nursling I had cradled there. And many an hour beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne’er forgot the new-born treasure, J left within my bosom slumbering. Perhaps indifference has not chill’d it, Haply, it yet a throb may give— Yet no—perhaps a doubt has kill’ i O Cara !—does the feeling live ? t! TO CARA, ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW-YEAR’S DAY, WHEN midnight came to close the year, We sigh’d to think it thus should take The hours it gave us—hours as dear As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments! every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one ! But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh Which came another year to shed, The smile we caught from eye to eye Told us those moments were not fled ; Oh no !—we felt some future sun Should see us still more closely one !Soest eeeriantrhosessepeceeteal ei Sede PR : = cn E - ; LS nmaihambdi baths udetenadderdedie pli ee ene ee ee et Zt hee Audet dinette nae abd neukhein ana ak el bakh ehandeeeneebembenban eto cm reese en eae ne ateptse interac teeter eeite pesretae ate tent ethene rere eal ai etter “ees MOORE’S POEMS. Thus may we ever, side by side, From happy years to happier glide, And, still, my Cara, may the sigh We give to hours that vanish o’er us Be follow’d by the smiling eye That Hope shall shed on scenes before us! TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL. Tay try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you are not a daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; 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 ever had 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? No, no—but for you, my invisible love, I will swear you are one of those spirits that roye By the bank where at twilight the poet reclines, When the star of the west on his solitude shines, And the magical fingers of fancy have hung Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue! Oh! whisper him then ’tis retirement alone Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone . Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, His song to the world let him utter unseen, And like you, alegitimate 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 for 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 disgust from the clamorous crew, To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. Toe ee esate eo ESF aLG eeMISCELLANEOUS POLMS, Oh ! 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 is weigh’d down and the eyelid is light, You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above! O spirit !—and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known, The voice of the one upon earth who has twined With her essence 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 that voice on my ear, I will think at that moment my Cara is near, That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid and sighs on my cheek, And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh! Sweet 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! PEACE AND GLORY. WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PRESEN® WAR, WHERE is now the smile that lighten’d Every hero’s couch of rest? Where is now the hope that brighten’d Honour’s eye and pity’s breast ? Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men ? Is the faithless olive faded, Must the bay be pluck’d again? Passing hour of sunny weather Lovely in your light a while, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wander’d through the blessed isle. And the eyes of peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done. ~~ es ms es Ss beieebhesa re z Paebel Sot Git asthenia : st a es Poceerrrt were rene wee Pes seinis Sg a he ee be lt iret ba ae eR vm « 7 helio aetna oe . Dat SC oe esa e sethaohuttinrgibinatainaiattenaiiondd oda ddea sabe dides aie ced cae cect eee ne pained sab ihaetoaebiess ee ee rooms Ps : ’ Reakeieed Seen phew edee tid Sand Seideeetebeaete teas rt os sein ™ heat depres nameebimamnih ain chia eee reed ve eee: hos i . hee, eee * ae MOORE'S POEMS, Is the hour of meeting over ? Must the maiden’s trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert’s still retreat ? Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; Yet the smile with which you vanish Leaves behind a soothing light ! Soothing light! that long shall sparkle O’er your warrior’s sanguine way Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding Hope’s consoling ray ! Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true, While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you! TO ier, To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy’s power, When her soft magic fills the mind With friends and joys we ’ve left behin d, And joys return and friends are near, And all are welcomed with a tear ! In the mind’s purest seat to dwell, To be remember’d oft and well By one whose heart, though vain and wild, By passion led, by youth beguiled, Can proudly still aspire to know The feeling soul’s divinest glow ! 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, When passion doth not first betray And tinge the thought upon its way ! 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 atlMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, I'll take thy image ag the form Of something I should long to warm, Which, though it yield no answering thrill, _ Is not less dear, is lovely still! I'll take it, wheresoe’er I stray, The bright, cold burthen of my way ! To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, My heart shall be its glowing tomb, And love shall lend his sweetest care, With memory to embalm it.there! SONG. Take back the sigh thy lips of art In passion’s moment breathed to me; Yet, no—it must not, will not part, *Tis now the life-breath of my heart, And has become too pure for thee ! Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh With all the warmth of truth imprest; Yet, no—the fatal kiss may lie, Upon thy lip its sweets would die, Or bloom to make a rival blest! Take back the vows that, night and day My heart received, I thought, from thine ; Yet, no—allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray, As sweetly as the ’ve ruin’d mine! THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. AN IRREGULAR ODE. « Ad harmoniam canere mundum.’”—Cicei'o, De Nat. Deor., lib. iii. TuERE lies a shell beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echo’d the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed ; This magic shell From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wander’d by the tide that laves Sicilia’s sands of gold. It bears Upon its shining side, the mystic notes- tunes coppenereroes sooo oath) rae eer es Pibibadhabtdhnhedintinn One kee ee ee ee ee aoe Set setter et pee eeeg ee ek ee ee eee ee Pr te ae eheharaahanudaaitne . scheme kik oe ee ee ere er anes orn Pete peer aber er rechten err sna pei tr tt eee eatras poet tiae te oat ieee Sr trererers ‘Ciscpeni . iesnddeia a * He the air. ¢ In tion of MOORE’S POEMS, Of those entrancing airs The genii of the deep were wont to swell W hen heaven’s eternal orbs their midnight music roll’d! Oh! seek it wheresoe’er it floats ; And if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, Go, bring the bright shell 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, And thou shalt own That, through the circle of creation’s zone, Where matter darkles or where spirit beams; From the pellucid tides 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,* To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric’s burning fields; -- Oh! thou shalt 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 shell ! Many a star has ceased to burn, } 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! I fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, wko waked its early swell, The syren with a foot of fire, Walks o’er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,|| raclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea oi the harmony of the spheres originated with this poct, who, in represent- ing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the account of Africa which d’Ablancourt has tremslated, there is men- a tree in that country whose branches, when shaken by the hand, produce very sweet sounds. t All uding 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. § Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. || The system of the harmonised orbs was styled by the ancients ‘The Great Lyre of Orpheus.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Or guides around the burning pole The wing’d chariot of some blissful soul! While thou, O son of earth! what dreams shall rise for thee ! Beneath Hispania’s sun Thou’lt see a streamlet run, Which I have warm’d with dews of melody ; Listen !—when the night wind dies Down the still current, like a harp it sighs ! 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 godlike dream, Such—mortal! mortal! hast thou heard of him,* Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangzean mount, And, looking to the orient dim, Watch’d 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 world imprest + The various forms of bright divinity ! Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, ’*Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,+ 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 * Orpheus. + In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes a figured seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to have stamped a variety of forms upon the universe. { Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation, and the mysteries of his philos- ophy. § The Tetractys, or Sacred Number of the Pythagoreans, on which they solemnly swore, and which they called Tayay acvaov duaews, “The Fountain of Perennial Nature.”Se hee ree be | MOORE'S POEMS. 1 | By the great diadem that twines my hair, f And by the seven gems that sparkle there,* Mingling their beams In a soft iris of harmonious light, O mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams ! THE RING. TO 7 COL: No—Lady ! Lady! keep the ring; Oh! think how many a future year Of placid smile and downy wing May sleep within its holy sphere! Do not disturb their tranquil dream, Though love hath ne’er the mystery warm’d, Yet Heaven will shed a soothing beam To bless the bond itself hath form’d. But then that eye, that burning eye! Oh! it doth ask, with magic power, If Heaven can ever bless the tie Where love inwreathes no genial flower ! — oad atneeed Sere eat bats sa yee us anes bas ebianees " “¢ senbbebhd didieithaniondchaandtednacbabm ata ainadeadahderedsdcadabd datos ee Pee ee Zehegcterhes epee: debate bdeeehesbii oak abel Saas Away, away, bewildering look! Or all the boast of virtue’s o’er; Go—hie thee to the sage’s book, And learn from him to feel no more! T cannot warn thee; every touch That brings my pulses close to thine Tells me I want thy aid as much, Oh! quite as much, as thou dost mine! or srs mn ae cy os. errs Yet stay, dear love—one effort yet— A moment turn those eyes away, And let me, if I can, forget The light that leads my soul astray ! ms Eetentie ele errs Thou sayst that we were born to meet, That our hearts bear one common seal, O Lady ! think how man’s deceit | Can seem to sigh and feign to feel ! | eee aes been eee Sete il aor 2 90.) mee crt eecencinnimcenthendiheniede titel ‘ ee ana pee osama eather es i dd ed When o’er thy face some gleam of thought, Like day-beams through the morning air, Hath gradual stole, and I have caught The feeling ere it kindled there: * This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between the notes of music and tke prismatic colours. deleted aattot —— are teMISCELLANHOUS POEMS, The sympathy I then betray’d Perhaps was but the child of art; The guile of one who long hath play With all these wily nets of heart. 2:5, G. Oh! thou hast not my virgin vow ; Though few the years I yet have told, Canst thou believe I live till now, With loveless heart or senses cold ? No—many a throb of bliss and pain, For many a one my soul hath proved; With some I sported wild and vain, While some I truly, dearly 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 languid heart, Which long hath lost its early spring: Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, And—keep the ring, ol! keep the ring. DO) eee Vuen I loved you, I can’t but allow I had many an exquisite minute ; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in 10! Thus, whether we ’re on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you ; To love you is pleasant enough, And, oh! ’tis delicious to hate you! FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER, Fini high the cup with liquid flame, And speak my Heliodora’s name! Repeat its magic o’er and o’er, And let the sound my lips adore Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim On every bowl’s voluptuous brim! Give me the wreath that withers there— Tt was but last delicious night ee eee oe , " " - ee re ae Meteors tert ere et hts peerSeer ee Mee Sr bene em Poe ; . aw - Lededhacdshtuhinblabdbirdsbadick st eke Ce ee ee ee ae aeenore parettos renner wee Se ae e a dh neha Dh Lt ete Dt ol eee ete n Lal ak tah el Ree Cees ee ag AR Le ee eae re Pe Rp dw liee Peele Beene tatekde tetas eee ante saree pyesre ro nesod ASE Reece tne ys iene ep tran erg 2M 2 ao sene me eres ene ed ee ieshien ee ates st “* ¢ & & — on an aa en Me PPT ee se tent rent Fy ane oe Leedianae ee ’ MOORE'S POEMS, It hung upon her wavy hair, And caught her eyes’ reflected light, Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow; It breathes of Heliodora now ! The loving rose-bud drops a tear To see the nymph no longer here, No longer where she used to stay, To glad my heart and cheer my way ! — i FOUND her not—the chamber seem’d Like some divinely-haunted place, Where fairy forms had lately beam’d, 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 ! O Nea! Nea! where art thou? In pity fly not thus from me ; Thou art my life, my essence now, And my soul dies of wanting thee LOVE AND REASON. §* Quand ’homme commence 4 raisonner, il cesse de sentir.” J. J. Rousseau. ’I'was in the summer-time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season ; That—who, of all the world, should meet, One early dawn, but Love and Reason ! Love told his dream of yester-night, While Reason talk’d about the weather ; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, And on they took their way together. The boy in many a gambol flew, While Reason like a Juno stalk’d, And from her portly figure threw A lengthen’d shadow as she walk’d. ter eek bosseseae er es MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, No wonder Love, as on they pass’d, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast Fell on the boy, and cool’d him still. In vain he tried his wings to warm, Or find a pathway not so dim, For still the maid’s gigantic form Would pass between the sun and him. “This must not be,” said little Love— “The sun was made for more than yov.” So turning through a myrtle grove, He bid the portly nymph adieu! Now gaily roves the laughing boy O’er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy, And drinking bliss in every beam. From all the gardens, all the bowers, He cull’d the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smell’d the flowers, Till taste was gone and odour faded! But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Look’d blazing o’er the parched plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrill’d through all his veins ! The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with vivid bloom he smiled— Oh, where was tranquil Reason now, To cast her shadow o’er the child? Beneath a green and aged palm, His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning! “Oh, take me to thy bosom cold,” In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason oped her garment’s fold, And flung it round his fever’d head. He felt her bosom’s icy touch, And soon it lull’d his pulse to rest; For ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired on Reason’s breast ! cae \. Stade tae aretuee es paren 5 om “ - oT ea oration iuStee Ss Be | eet tea a bettas eh aoe er Rit S * ler 4 * lanes te MOORE'S POEMS, ho oS bo tet Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear! While in these arms you lie, The world hath not a wish, a fear, That ought to claim one precious tear From that beloved eye ! eof a ee ent The world!—ah, Fanny! love must shun The path where many rove; One bosom to recline upon, One heart, to be his only one, Are quite enough for love ! eee me What can we wish that is not here Between your arms and mine? Is there on earth a space so dear As that within the blessed sphere Two loving arms entwine ? Caen 722 For me, there ’s not a lock of jet Along your temples curl’d, Within whose glossy, tangling net, My soul doth not at once forget All, all the worthless world ! Reeshacnehasteddse Daanakbnothabeabadaadodedatigabiodeior sce te eae Re se ee eel Pesrs ee Metre ees oo | Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love! | My only worlds I see; | wate | Let but thet orbs in sunshine move, And earth below and skies above May frown or smile for me! — Beha Pee Pr re ee eed ASPASIA. Twas in the fair Aspasia’s bower, That Love and Learning many an hour In dalliance met; and Learning smiled With rapture on the playful child, Who frequent stole, to find his nest Within a fold of Learning’s vest ! 7 Mitte teandeahaena tienen edit ad et ok petagece tase ae There, as the listening statesman hung In transport on Aspasia’s tongue, The destinies of Athens took Their colour from Asgpasia’s look. Oh happy time! when laws of state, When all that ruled the country’s fate, act ree AEE ther 9) aiaeeaeed om Reese hires rete ie tee hen - fone a ee he a 97% caeMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Tts glory, quiet, or alarms, Was plann’d between two snowy arms! Sweet times! you could not always last— And yet, oh! yet, you are not past; Though we have lost the sacred mould In which their men were cast of old, Woman, dear woman, still the same, While lips are balm and looks are flame, While man possesseg heart or eyes, Woman’s bright empire never dies! Fanny, my love, they ne’er shall say, That beauty’s charm hath pass’d away ; No—give the universe a soul Attuned to woman’s soft control, And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, To wield a universe at will! THE GRECIAN GIRL’S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.* Was it the moon, or was it morning’s ray, That call’d thee, dearest, from me far away, For oh, my Theon, what a heavenly dream ! T saw two spirits on the lunar beam, Two winged boys descending from above, And gliding to my bower with looks of love, Like the young genii who repose their wings All day in Amatha’s luxurious springs And rise at midnight from the tepid rill To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill ! To that dim mansion of my breast they stole, Where, wreathed in blisses, lay my captive soul. Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung So sweetly round ine, and aloft I sprung! Exulting guides, the little genii flew Through paths of light refresh’d with starry dew, And fann’d by airs of that ambrosial breath, On which the free soul banquets after death ! Thou knowst, my love, beyond our clouded skies, As bards have dream’d, the spirits’ kingdom lies, * Tt was imagined by come of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean ebove us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside. pet ROSISTR Tee teeesod acer reacacs as bldettiehspledeih sek tt Sr iecieseint ee esrb petcshs chi Mon Pad yom er ciet-nne tet PeeCee ane Licstes —- S nahenidmbncanmieet one, eee eee —— Ceaser = — ee ~ Teolesatyutedaw toketoter. Seeded Td ee eee Seersiaeses PD ee x ria es ve io 7 aS eee rt . eee Peden an ae eee ST eee Sc eee srrscirers * This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or ‘‘ waters above the firma- ment,” was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers be- wildered themselves, { There were various opinions among the ancients with respect to their lunar establishment; some made it an elysium, and others a purgatory ; while some supposed it to be a kind of entrepét between heaven and earth, where souls which had left their bodies, and those that were on their way to join them, were deposited in the valleys of Hecate, and remained till further orders. { The pupil of Epicurus, who called her his “dear little Leontium.” § Pythias was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom, after her death, he paid divine honours, solemnising her memory hy the same sacri- fices which the Athenians offered to the goddess Ceres, || Pythagoras was remarkable for fine hair, MOORES POEMS. Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls” Gemm’d with bright islands, where the hallow’d souls Whom life hath wearied in its race of hours Repose for ever in unfading bowers ! That very orb, whose solitary light So often guides thee to thy home at night, Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, Floating in splendour through those seas above! Thither, I thought, we wing’d our airy way, Mild o’er its valleys stream’d a silvery day, While all around, on lily beds of rest, Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest ! + Oh! there I met those few congenial maids Whom love hath warm’d in philosophic shades ; There still Leontium,t on her sage’s breast, Found lore and love, was tutor’d and caress’d; And there the twine of Pythia’s$ gentle arms Repaid the zeal which deified her charms! The Attic master, in Aspasia’s eyes Forgot the toil of less endearing ties; While fair Theano, innocently fair, Play’d with the ringlets of her Samian’s hair,|| Who, fix’d by love, at length was all her own, u And pass’d his spirit through her lips alone! O Samian sage! whate’er thy glowing thought Of mystic Numbers divinely wrought, The One that’s form’d of Two who dearly love Is the best number heaven can boast above ! But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill’d, When near a fount, which o’er the vale distill’d, My fancy’s eye beheld a form recline, Of lunar race, but so resembling thine, That, oh !—’twas but fidelity in me, To fly, to clasp, and welcome it for thee ! O my beloved! how divinely sweet Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet {ee. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Th’ Eleangod,* whose faithful waters flow, With love their only light, through caves below, Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids And festal rings with which Olympic maids Have deck’d their billow, as an offering meet ‘'o pour at Arethusa’s crystal feet ! But no; no more—soon as to-morrow’s ray O’er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away, I'll fly, my Theon, to thy loving breast, And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest. TO CLOE. IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. I couLD resign that eye of blue, Howe’er it burn, howe’er it thrill me; And though your lip be rich with dew, To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. That snowy neck I ne’er should miss, However oft I ’ve raved about it; And though your heart can beat with bliss, I think my soul could live without it. In short, I ’ve learn’d so well to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whither I might not bring myself at last To—do without you altogether ! THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN. T Brine thee, love, a golden Chain, I bring thee, too, a flowery Wreath; | The gold shall never wear a stain, The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe! Come, tell me which the tie shall be To bind thy gentle heart to me. The Chain is of a splendid thread, Stolen from Minerva’s yellow hair, * The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the cclebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe ' the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa.- Urea st reay Baty moooBitbagtesi? | £77 Hidde tt * MOORES POEMS. i Just when the setting sun had shed | The sober beam of evening there. The Wreath’s of brightest myrtle wove, Vith brilliant tears of bliss among it, And many a rose-leaf cull’d by Love T'o heal his lip when bees have stung it ! Come, tell me which the tie shall be, To bind thy gentle heart to me. Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, Which answers when the tongue is loth, Thou likest the form of either tie, And holdst thy playful hands for both. Ah !—if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft ; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft ! Then might the gold, the flowerets be Sweet fetters for my love and me! But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, That (Heaven alone can tell the reason) When mingled thus they cease to shine, f Or shine but for a transient season ! Whether the Chain may press too much, Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, Let but the gold the flowerets touch, And all their glow, their tints are faded ! “et Ce aan aremener Gh os To 2 AnD hast thou mark’d the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Amidst the happiness, dear maid, Which thou canst give, and only thou? Oh! ’tis not that I then forget The endearing charms that round me twine— There never throbb’d a bosom yet Could feel their witchery like mine ! When bashful on my bosom hid, And blushing to bave felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid, Again to close it on my breast ! cornhevenmiahiinniaei pn tiae Daca ranean anes SNR trent tert ti ep os Oh! these are minutes all thine own, Thine own to give, and mine to feel, Yet even in them, my heart has known The sigh to rise, the tear to steal. bed. aeoe _ o Seeetitek te et tees dwtetetye” ete te ted Se sores ioc aa doe reas idea ke Beefs, fete i riMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For I have thought of former hours, When he who first thy soul possess’d, Like me awaked its witching powers, Like me was loved, like me was blest! Upon his name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; For him that snowy lid hath hung In ecstasy as purely felt! For him—yet why the past recall To wither blooms of present bliss ? Thou’rt now my own, I clasp thee all, And Heaven can grant no more than thi3! Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; I would be first, be sole to thee, Thou shouldst have but begun to live The hour that gave thy heart to me. Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone, On which he first so dearly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own! SONG. HE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove; Is fair—but oh ! how fair If pity’s hand had stolen from Love One leaf to mingle there ! A If every rose with gold were tied, Did gems for dew-drops fall, One faded leaf, where Love had sigh’d, Were sweetly worth them all! The wreath you wove, the wreath you wore, Our emblem well may be; Ets bloom is yours, but hopeless love Must keep its tears for me! LYING. I po confess, in many a sigh My lips have breathed you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would loge them for a lie or two? i ea Pot Se ee eeeer ee eee eT Ts ere reeeere Od kaa pease eros Tir as hae eeerenvnrn venir 5[S-pahent-Ridcneprantadete tenkkaeen beeatniiie hae * . Meter ts seers Seam santot Pettieee MOORE'S POEMS. Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving3 Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! If half we tell the girls were true, Tf half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying’s bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion ! If ladies’ eyes were, every one, As lovers’ swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes! Oh no !—believe me, lovely girl, When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can Heaven decree, That you should live for only me. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth whose love is sweet, Long as you’re false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours : But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth ! ANACREONTIC. I FIL ’D to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and bland, *Twas drinking, filling, drinking still ! At length I bid an artist paint Thy image in this ample cup, That I might see the dimpled saint, To whom I quaft’d my nectar up. Behold how bright that purple lip Is blushing through the wave at me ! Every roseate drop I sip Is just like kissing wine from thee ! But, oh! I drink the more for this; For, ever when the draught I drain, Thy lip invites another kiss, And in the nectar flows again !eiseest¢ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 209 So, here’s to thee, my gentle dear ! And may that eye for ever shine Beneath as soft and sweet a tear As bathes it in this bowl of mine ! TO ’S PICTURE. Go then, if she whose shade thou art No more will let thee soothe my pain— Yet tell her it has cost this heart Some pangs to give thee back again ! Tell her the smile was not so dear With which she made thy semblance mine, As bitter is the burning tear With which I now the gift resign ! Yet go—and could she still restore, As some exchange for taking thee, The tranquil look which first I wore When her eyes found me wild and free ; Could she give back the careless flow, The spirit which my fancy knew— Yet, ah! ’tis vain—go, picture, go— Smile at me once, and then adieu! FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.** Buiesr infant of eternity ! Before the day-star learn’d to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career, Glancing the beamy shafts of light From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, Thou wert alone, O Love! Nestling beneath the wings of ancient night, Whose horrors seem’d to smile in shadowing thee ! No form of beauty soothed thine eye, As through the dim expanse it wander’d wide ; No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, As o’er the watery waste it lingering died ! * Tove and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles | of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonis- | ing impulse from the sympathy between these two powers. |at th an steel th ta es ee RR BRS gud es te ER fee Pe _ P gaa petiy rine Be Sey he a a ia pehiaecneeiena Pree ers aheetetertie eee edidiie athe tel she deka neck al ee 2) me eee oh eens Pod an ri eo Bewoase ea ee r creat Pabeaaee eee betdinehs choot eee ik ad rn Ne miad otiieake keer nee a MOORE'S POEMS, Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, That latent in his heart was sleeping ; O sympathy! that lonely hour Saw Love himself thy absence weeping ! But look what glory through the darkness beams ! Celestial airs along the water glide: What spirit art thou moving o’er the tide So lovely ? Art thou but the child Of the young godhead’s dreams ? "Tis she ! Psyche, the first-born spirit of the air | To thee, O Love ! she turns, On thee her eye-beam burns: Blest hour of happy cestasy ! They meet— The blooming god—the spirit fair— Oh! sweet, oh heavenly sweet ! Now, sympathy, the hour is thine ; All nature feels the thrill divine, ‘The veil of chaos is withdrawn, And their first union is creation’s dawn. TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE on MONTPENSIER, ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBTS, To catch the thought by painting’s spell, Howe’er remote, howe’er refined, And o’er the magic tablet tell The silent story of the mind; O’er nature’s form to glance the eye, And fix, by mimic light and shade, Her morning tinges, ere they fly, Her evening blushes, ere they fade! These are the pencil’s grandest theme, Divinest of the powers divine That light the Muse’s flowery dream, And these, O Prince ! are richly thine | Yet, yet, when friendship sees thee trace, In emanating soul exprest, The sweet memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest ;MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. While o’er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek that blushes to be seen, The eye that tells the bosom’s truth ; While o’er each line so brightly true, Her soul with fond attention roves, Blessing the hand whose various hue Could imitate the form it loves ; She feels the value of thy art, And owns it with a purer zeal, A rapture nearer to her heart Than critic taste can ever feel ! THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS TO A LAM? WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS, *MNnulcis conscia lectuli Lucerna.’ —Marttal, lib. xiv., epig. 89, “Qu! love the lamp,” (my mistress said,) “The faithful lamp that many a night Beside thy Lais’ lonely bed Has kept its little watch of light! “Full often has it seen her weep, And fix her eye upon its flame, Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, Repeating her beloved’s name ! “Then love the lamp—'twill often lead Thy step through learning’s sacred way : And, lighted by its happy ray, Whene’er those darling eyes shall read Of things sublime, of nature’s birth, Of all that’s bright in heaven or earth, Oh! think that she by whom ’twas given Adores thee more than.earth or heaven !” Yes, dearest lamp! by every charm On which thy midnight beam has hung; The neck reclined, the graceful arm Across the brow of ivory flung ; The heaving bosom, partly hid, The sever’d lips’ delicious sighs, The fringe that from the snowy lid Along the cheek of roses lies: By these, by all that bloom untold, And long as all shall charm my heart, bh, et ee peli nia Lr Lr rten tet hihi sinittr wien, oetarett pap oeeh rien yes ” eet Ered bre rye eee rt or atsgoetsnenee ees eens aaa Perret rere a Aided atuhdedndandnddis bhoes Se ee Te Sesoke ee * erect peoeres wae e Be eee aoe ie HF ners Pao cag ON TES! Bed teehee ae eee ~ oe Sat etetter seh teeter ee poner mise in fart mg Vem ate. anes note ees oe ees — that Piebhostetnekie tethered hate ee athe theredieetndtenainbene ee es pees Nice eT res fi aes es ba tc Shoe aint eo etna mr ee ey be hy ETT TE Tire Pet oe be ee: MOORE'S POEMS. T’ll love my little lamp of gold— My lamp and I shall never part ! And often, as she smiling said, In fancy’s hour thy gentle rays Shall guide my visionary tread, Through poesy’s enchanting maze ! Thy flame shall light the page refined, Where still we catch the Chian’s breath, Where still the bard, though cold in deaih, Has left his burning soul behind! Or o’er thy humbler legend shine, O man of Ascra’s dreary glades! To whom the nightly warbling Nine A wand of inspiration gave Pluck’d from the greenest tree that shades The crystal of Castalia’s wave. Then, turning to a purer lore, We'll cull the sages’ heavenly store, From science steal her golden clue, And every mystic path pursue, Where nature, far from vulgar eyes, Through labyrinths of wonder flies ! *Tis thus my heart shall learn to know The passing world’s precarious flight, Where all that meets the morning glow Is changed before the fall of night ! I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, “Swift swift the tide of being rung, And Time who bids thy flame expire, Will also quench yon heaven of sung !” Oh then, if earth’s united power Can ever chain one feathery hour; If every print we leave to-day L'o-morrow’s wave shall steal away ; Who pauses to inquire of Heaven Why were the fleeting treasures given, The sunny days, the shady nights, And all their brief but dear delights, Which Heaven has made for man to use, And man should think it guilt to lose ? Who that has cull’d a weeping rose Will ask it why it breathes and glows, Unmindful of the blushing ray In which it shines its soul away!MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Unmindful of the scented sigh, On which it dies, and loves to die ? Pleasure ! thou only good on earth !* Our little hour resign’d to thee— Oh! by my Lais’ lip, ’tis worth The sage’s immortality ! Then far be all the wisdom hence, And all the lore whose tame control Would wither joy with chill delays! Alas! the fertile fount of sense, At which the young, the panting soul Drinks life and love, too soon decays ! Sweet lamp! thou wert not form’d to shed. Thy splendour on a lifeless page— Whate’er my blushing Lais said Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, *Twas mockery all—her glance of joy Told me thy dearest, best employ! And soon as night shall close the eye Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west, When seers are gazing on the sky To find their future orbs of rest, Then shall I take my trembling way, Unseen but to those worlds above, And led by thy mysterious ray, Glide to the meeting with my love. TO MRS BL—H—D. WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. Tuy say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you) Where all who came the pencil took And wrote, like us, a line or two. "Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow’d line Or thought profane should enter there. * Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which {dea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuonsness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of plea- sure, a8 a Violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses. i . ‘ pce : carte i ort 298 Re. ae eho ® © ee or Rebboertoe Spr: REES ahh sheeCSc sete ee ST Cee hee eee pene. ee ee re ear reer ies ne ee pare ee ae Aine Ne Oa ey i ety haa ie in fet tenia rere petal orig si PE neha aches totasdeaeketbaterdes caren cee eee eenendtiatthchahatinendhintaiedeh sien Pata te whe tusne a eee eee wee oe pean? “2 neem behead kee Eee aie TaPereT rae a MOORE'S POEMS, And sweetly did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn’d was still More bright than that she turn’d before } Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, How light the magic pencil ran ! Till Fear would come, alas! as oft, And trembling close what Hope began, A tear or two had dropp’d from Grief, And Jealousy would now and then Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf, Which Love had still to smooth again ! But oh! there was a blooming boy, Who often turn’d the pages o’er, And wrote therein such words of joy, As all who read still sigh’d for more ! And Pleasure was this spirit’s name And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene’er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book ! And so it chanced, one luckless night He let his nectar goblet fall O’er the dear book, so pure, so white, And sullied lines and marge and all! And Fancy’s emblems lost their glow, And Hope’s sweet lines were all defaced, And Love himself could scarcely know What Love himself had lately traced ! At length the urchin Pleasure fled (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay 2) And Love, while many a tear he shed, In blushes flung the book away ! The index now alone remains, Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure | And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages now no more, And thinks of lines that long are faded ! I know not if this tale be true, But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you, Since Love and you are near related ! —_—__MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, THE FALL OF HEBE. A DITHYRAMBIC ODE. "Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay, The bowl Sparkled with starry dew, The weeping of those myriad urns of light Within whose orbs the almighty Power, At nature’s dawning hour, Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul !* Around. Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight From eastern isles, (Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, And with fine fragrance all their bosoms fill’d,) In circles flew, and melting as they flew, A liquid daybreak o’er the board distill'd! All, all was luxury ! All must be luxury where Lyzus smiles! His locks divine Were crown’d With a bright meteor-braid, Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, And o’er his brow in lambent tendrils play’d! While mid the foliage hung, Like lucid grapes, A thousand clustering blooms of light Cull’d from the gardens of the galaxy ! Upon his bosom, Cytherea’s head Lay lovely, as when first the syrens sung Her beauty’s dawn, And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, Reveal’d her sleeping in its azure bed. The captive deity Languish’d upon her eyes and lip, In chains of ecstasy ! Now on his arm In blushes she reposed, * This is a Platonie fancy; the philosopher supposes, in his Fines, that, when the Deity had formed the soul of the world, He proceeded to the composition of other souls; in which process, says Plato, He made use of the same cup, though the ingredients He mingled were not quite ‘so pure as for the former; and having yefined the mixture with a littie of His own essence, He distributed 1t among the stars, which served as reservoirs of. the fluid. pees penb rr rtoskc nhc didnt Sitreieetd ests Tees ines erritst te Leek ihaotn bee he - Peer ee ee eat Press reebo 8 2 wages =" tees ete ee aren re! POS Fee ee ee! i ee ae te oa aoe es erase ere chine tetdeeetodtotied te sess Se weeee So ene * beehaiiadea eka ee ce * eet cont Ss athbdidk at adahiceia near et trae MOORE'S POEMS. And while he looked entranced on every charm, To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole; And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip The nectar’d wave Lyzeus gaye, And from her eyelids, gently cloged, Shed a dissolving gleam, Vhich fell like sun-dew in the bowl, While her bright hair, in mazy flow Of gold descending Along her cheek’s luxurious glow, Waved o’er the goblet’s side, And was reflected by its crystal tide, Like a sweet crocus flower, Whose sunny leaves at evening hour, With roses of Cyrene blending, Hang o’er the mirror of a silver stream ! The Olympian cup Burn’d in the hands Of dimpled Hebe as she wing’d her feet p The empyreal mount To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount ; * And still, As the resplendent rill Flamed o’er the goblet with a mantling heat, Her graceful care Would cool its heavenly fire In gelid waves of snowy-feather’d air, Such as the children of the pole respire Tn those enchanted lands, Where life is all a spring, and north winds never blow ! But oh! Sweet Hebe, what a tear And what a blush were thine, When, as the breath of every grace Wafted thy fleet career Along the studded sphere, With a rich cup for Jove himself +o drink, Some star that glitter’d in the Way, * Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a Spark of the stellar essence, + The country of the Hyperboreans. They were supposed to be placed 80 far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing &c. It was imagined that, instead of our vulgar atmosphere, the Hype. boreans breathed nothing but feathers ! According to Herodotus and Pliny, this idea was suggested by the quantity of snow which was ob:erved to fall in those regions.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Raising its amorous head To kiss so exquisite a tread, Check’d thy impatient pace ! And all heaven’s host of eyes Saw those luxuriant beauties sink In lapse of loveliness, along the azure skies ! Upon whose starry plain they lay Like a young blossom on our meads of gold, Shed from a vernal thorn Amid the liquid sparkles of the morn |! Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, The myrtled votaries of the queen behold An image of their rosy idol laid Upon a diamond shrine! Who was the spirit that remember’d man In that exciting hour ? And with a wing of love Brush’d off the scatter’d tears, As o’er the spangled heaven they ran, And sent them floating to our orb below ?* Essence of immortality ! The shower Fell glowing through the spheres, While all around new tints of bliss, New perfumes of delight, Enrich’d its radiant flow ! Now, with a humid kiss, It thrill’d along the beamy wire Of heaven’s illumin’d lyre,+ Stealing the soul of music in its flight ! And now, amid the breezes bland, That whisper from the planets as they roll, The bright libation, softly fann’d By all their sighs, meandering stole! They who, from Atlas’ height, Beheld the rill of flame Descending through the waste of night, Thought ’twas a planet whose stupendous iframe Had kindled as it rapidly revolved Around its fervid axle, and dissolved : Into a flood so bright ! The child of day, Within his twilight bower, ® In the “ Geoponica,” lib. ii., cap. 17, there is a fable somewhat like this descent of the nectar to earth. ; + The constellation Lyra. The astrologers attribute great virtues to this sign in the ascendant, > a IE pep si)A ennpnietrpewat. We bansae woken: ambelavenne tei: ip dheabdibiienan deisel nad tastie nea SETS TT Sbcuindeplegtcbeitaertenbanttoie cad Peel ee eats ee oe entneetha tenet ath ekeapiinesh ohh err a nore ea eS tat teers Loasetoad * baa s oe Ona ge ce ot bse 4k MOORE'S POEMS, Lay sweetly sleeping On the flush’d bosom of a lotus-flower; * When round him, in profusion weeping, Dropp’d the celestial shower, Steeping The rosy clouds that curl’d About his infant head, Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed! But when the waking boy Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, O morn of joy! The tide divine, All glittering with the vermil dye It drank beneath his orient eye, Distill’d in dews upon the world, And every drop was wine, was heavenly wine! Blest be the sod, the floweret blest, That caught upon their hallow’d breast The nectar’d spray of Jove’s perennial springs! Less sweet the floweret, and less sweet the sod, O’er which the spirit of the rainbow flings The magic mantle of her solar god! + ANACREONTIC, “ SHE never look’d so kind before—— Yet why the melting smile recall ? I ’ve seen this witchery o’er and o’er, *Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!” Thus I said, and, sighing, sipp’d The wine which she had lately tasted ‘ The cup where she had lately dipp’d Breath so long in falsehood wasted. I took the harp, and would have sung As if ’twere not of her I sang; But still the notes on Lamia hung— On whom but Lamia could they hang? That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I’d give her; * The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotus. + The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the swe the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chi *rifices was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated, etest upon which efly burned in sa- im Si ies iatMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Those floating eyes that floating shine Like diamonds in an eastern river ! That mould so fine, so pearly bright, Of which luxurious Heaven hath cast her, Through which her soul did beam as white As flame through lamps of alabaster ! Of these I sung, and notes and words Were sweet, as if ’twas Lamia’s hair That lay upon my lute for chords, And Lamia’s lip that warbled there ! But when, alas! I turn’d the theme, And when of vows and oaths I spoke, Of truth and hope’s beguiling dream— The chord beneath my finger broke. And when that thrill is most awake, And when you think heayen’s joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will break— O love! O music! how I hate you! TO MRS ———, ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER, Is not thy mind a gentle mind ? Is not thy heart a heart refined ? Hast thou not every blameless grace That man should love or Heaven can trace ? And oh ! art thou a shrine for sin To hold her hateful worship in ? No, no, be happy—dry that tear— Though some thy heart hath harbour’d near é May now repay its love with blame ; Though man, who ought to shield thy fame, Ungenerous man, be first to wound thee ; Though the whole world may freeze around thee, Oh! thow’lt be like that lucid tear * Which, bright within the crystal’s sphere In liquid purity was found, Though all had grown congeal’d around ; Floating in frost, it mock’d the chill, Was pure, was soft, was brilliant still! * This alludes to a curious gem—a drop of pure water enclosed within 3 piece of erystal.—See Claudian.ree ee eT Ei ptetciinettinde bid cea teeta cee ae we Ep etn + Reneayap- eee nh eee teeter eere nee pete ee ened Lieder te eran ra coo re) ahaa pain iaihs ott ier bated rales > spubewene Pome a ms pent eet ee Sabeta te 8 eats MOORE'S POEMS. HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI, AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER, Ox! lost, for ever lost !—no more Shall Vesper light our dewy way Along the rocks of Crissa’s shore, To hymn the fading fires of day ! No more to Tempe’s distant vale In holy musings shall we roam, Through summer’s glow and winter’s gale, To bear the mystic chaplets home! * "Twas then my soul’s expanding zeal, By nature warm’d, and led by thee, In every breeze was taught to feel The breathings of a deity ! Guide of my heart ! to memory true, Thy looks, thy words, are still my own— I see thee rising from the dew, Some laurel by the wind o’erthrown, And hear thee say, “ This humble bough. Was planted for a doom divine, And though it weep in languor now, Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine ! Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, Though sunk a while the spirit lies, A viewless hand shall cull it thence, To bloom immortal in the skies |” Thy words had such a melting flow, And spoke of truth so sweetly well, They dropp’d like heaven’s serenest snow, And all was brightness where they fell ! Fond soother of my infant tear ! Fond sharer of my infant joy ! Is not thy shade still lingering here ? Am I not still thy soul’s employ ? And oh! as oft, at close of day, When, meeting on the sacred mount, Our nymphs awaked the choral lay, And danced around Cassotis’ fount, As then, ’twas all my wish and care, That mine should be the simplest mien, * Upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, “The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute,” pith pein ari eae ie See marca at akMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. My lyre and voice the sweetest there, My foot the lightest o’er the green ; So still, each little grace to mould, Around my form thine eyes are shed, Arranging every snowy fold, And guiding every mazy tread ! And when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free, Hovers between my lip and lyre, And weds them into harmony! Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave Shall never drop its silvery tear Upon so pure, so blest a grave, To memory so divinely dear ! TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD, ON HER SINGING, Tore than once have heard at night A song like those thy lips have given, And it was sung by shapes of light, Who seem’d, like thee, to breathe of heaven ! But this was all a dream of sleep, And I have said, when morning shone, “Oh! why should fairy Fancy keep These wonders for herself alone ¢” J knew not then that fate had lent Such tones to one of mortal birth ; T knew not then that Heaven had sent A voice, a form like thine on earth! And yet in all that flowery maze Through which my life has loved to tread, When I have heard the sweetest lays From lips of dearest lustre shed ; When I have felt the warbled word From beauty’s mouth of perfume sighing, Sweet as music’s hallow’d bird Upon a rose’s bosom lying ! Though form and song at once combined Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sigh’d, my heart hath pined, For something softer, lovelier still! ey Peet eT) a ee it RATT Pye nen a f nen aebtalpaie eee . eine spriont ris netted hese ot Mord ihy 2 a ener inside Oe eer rer sa ar ¥eew ene et ate Laelia de aA Ce ed il Pil beastiesroe ee ennmnenpe # . Cada ea tl paerersiesemrrtt bie ty ng ny 2 kpdad wtibndmdth dude cine at eee ee ere ee errr. Teme reno ciomes-tererdssstetietintos ree ee . peered orse weave pes rensiin poy aoe he fer ira ses Piety [Siphad Moagaee tee eee : See mre tae Te See hee eS om We kf vat ah Five toy octindth die — he ai ae MOORES POEMS, Oh! I have found it all at last In thee, thou sweetest living lyre Through which the soul hath ever pase’d Its harmonising breath of fire ! All that my best and wildest dream, In fancy’s hour, could hear or see Of music’s sigh or beauty’s beam Are realised at once in thee } TO MRS HENRY TIGHE, ON READING HER “PsycuE.” (1802), 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 spring of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine, When Piety confess’d the flame, And even thy errors were divine ! Did ever Muse’s hand go fair A glory round thy temples spread ? Did ever lip’s ambrosial air Such perfume o’er thy altar shed ? One maid there was who round her lyra The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed— But all her sighs were sighs of fire, The myrtle wither’d as she breathed | Oh! you that love’s celestial dream In all its purity would know, Let not the senses’ ardent beam Too strongly through the vision glow! Dear Psyche! many a charmed hour, Through many a wild and magic waste To the fair fount and blissful bower Thy mazy foot my soul hath traced, 3 Where’er thy joys are number’d now, Beneath whatever shades of rest, ‘ihe Genius of the starry brow * Has chain’d thee to thy Cupid’s breast ; * Constancy.MISCELLANHOUS POEMS, Whether above the horizon dim, Along whose verge our spirits stray, Half sunk within the shadowy brim, Half brighten’d by the eternal ray,* Thou risest to a cloudless pole ! Or, lingering here, dost love to mar: The twilight walk of many a soul Through sunny good, and evil dark ; Still be the song to Psyche dear, The song whose dulcet tide was given To keep her name as fadeless here As nectar keeps her soul in heaven! IMPROMPTU, UPON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS. No, never shall my soul forget The friends I found so cordial-hearted ; Dear shall be the day we met, And dear shall be the night we parted ! Oh! if regrets, however sweet, Must with the lapse of time decay, Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet, Fill high to him that’s far away ! Long be the flame of memory found Alive within your social glass, Let that be still the magic round O’er which oblivion dares not pass ! A WARNING. Ox! fair as heaven and chaste as light! Did nature mould thee all so bright, That thou shouldst ever learn to weep O’er languid virtue’s fatal sleep, O’er shame extinguish’d, honour fled, Peace lost, heart wither’d, feeling dead ? No, no! a star was born with thee Which sheds eternal purity ! * By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul bee tween sensible and intellectual existence. trans So aby Ce erro rer rat fi Serene nha < iret haba tere ca Dahl biti heh ee one Ee Le ct ater yr erst Dh eke eaeene eset testes Met td refee iene ease Slhaditedetlh cd: lshdidihehs acne beniensh adeianddedakd addeodinbeedenan ee as nts ed cae ee —— _ oe trs te eee ~jotenanteresspen ae a hw as a ae ke ne ee ee ee ee ETE TT pat ceeess Seeger bent ez worpeen eae naiciipess rabeeir petyane perenne eet er ethernet ae a e ios ees Sad baad a a ee MOORE’S POEMS. Thou hast within those sainted eyes So fair a transcript of the skies, In lines of fire such heavenly lore, That man should read them and adore ! Yet have I known a gentle maid Whose early charms were just array’d In nature’s loveliness like thine, And wore that clear, celestial sign Which seems to mark the brow that’s fair For destiny’s peculiar care ! Whose bosom, too, was once a zone Where the bright gem of virtue shone; Whose eyes were talismans of fire Against the power of mad desire ! Yet, hapless girl! in one sad hour, Her charms have shed their radiant flower: The gem has been beguiled away ; Her eyes have lost their chastening ray ; The simple fear, the guiltless shame, The smiles that from reflection came, All, all have fled, and left her mind A faded monument behind ! Like some wave-beaten, mouldering stona, To memory raised by hands unknown, Which many a wintry hour has stood Beside the ford of Tyra’s flood, To tell the traveller, as he cross’d, That there some lovéd friend was lost ! Oh! ’twas a sight I wept to see— Heaven keep the lost one’s fate from thee! WOMAN, Away, away, you’re all the same, A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng! Oh! by my soul, I burn with shame, To think I’ve been your slave so long ! Still panting o’er a crowd to reign, More joy it gives to woman’s breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, Than one true manly lover blest ! Away, away—your smile’s a curse— Oh! blot me from the race of men, Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, Before I love such things again ! 3MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TO Comz, take the harp—’tis vain to muse Upon the gathering ills we see ; Oh! take the harp and let me lose All thoughts of ill in hearing thee ! Sing to me, love !—though death were near, Thy song could make my soul forget— Nay, nay, in pity dry that tear, All may be well, be happy yet! Let me but see that snowy arm Once more upon the dear harp lie, And I will cease to dream of harm, Will smile at fate while thou art nigh! Give me that strain, of mournful touch, We used to love long, long ago, Before our hearts had known as much As now, alas! they bleed to know! Sweet notes! they tell of former peace, Of all that look’d so rapturous then, Now wither’d, lost—oh ! pray thee, cease, I cannot bear those sounds again ! Art thou, too, wretched? yes, thou art; I see thy tears flow fast with mine— Come, come to this devoted heart, Tis breaking, but it still is thine ! A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. ‘Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met The venerable man; a virgin bloom Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought That tower’d upon his brow; as when we see The gentle moon and the full radiant sun Shining in heaven together. When he spoke Tas language sweeten’d into song—such holy sounds As oft the spirit of the good man hears Prelusive to the harmony of heaven When death is nigh! and still, as he unclosed His sacred lips, an odour all as bland Ag ocean breezes gather from the flowers That blossom iv. Elysium, breathed around ! With silent awe we listen’d, while he told f the dark veil which many an age had hungpees fear atte ee edt : dep euntnahenetiaeniie nithearaasirend hike ere coded peed peor tt — Sore Pe <_ pat snes Sarre Ee peared aaa ee ay tetaee MOORES POEMS, O’er Nature’s form, till by the touch of time The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And half the goddess beam’d in glimpses through it! Of magic wonders that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm, O’er his rude tablets of primeval lore,* Nor let the living star of science sink Beneath the waters which ingulf’d the world ! —- Of visions, by Calliope reveal’d To him,}+ who traced upon his typic lyre The diapason of man’s mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven! With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, Which the grave sons of Mochus many a night Told to the young and bright-hair’d visitant Of Carmel’s sacred mount ! t—Then, in a flow Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on Through many a maze of garden and of porch, Through many a system where the scatter’d light Of heavenly truth lay like a broken beam From the pure sun, which, though refracted all Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still, And bright through every change !—he spoke of Him, The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, And of the soul’s untraceable descent From that high fount of spirit, through the grades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark ; Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! As some bright river, which has roll’d along Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, When pour’d at length into the dusky deep, Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, But keeps a while the pure and golden tinge, The balmy freshness of the fields it left ! * Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with him into the ark the principal doctrines of magical, or rather of natural science, which he had inscribed upon some very durable substances, in order that they might resist the ravages of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antediluvian knowledge to his posterity. {t Orpheus. { Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending. with great so- lemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason the Carmelites have claimed him as one of their fraternity. This Mochus or Moschus, with the descend- ants of whom Pythagoras conversed in Phoonicia, and from whom he derived ae doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be the same with Toses, x.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And here the old man ceased—a winged train Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked, I knew my visionary soul had been Among that people of aerial dreams Who live upon the burning galaxy ! * TO Tnx world had just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on, I felt not as I used to feel, And life grew dark and love was gone! A No eye to mingle sorrow’s tear, No lip to mingle pleasure’s breath, No tongue to call me kind and dear— ’Twas gloomy, and I wish’d for death ! But when I saw that gentle eye, Oh! something seem’d to tell me then That I was yet too young to die, - And hope and bliss might bloom again ! With every beamy smile that cross’d Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling which my heart had lost, And peace which long had learn’d to roam! ‘Twas then indeed so sweet to live Hope look’d so new and love so kind, That, though I weep, I still forgive The ruin which they ’ve left behind! T could have loved you—oh so well! The dream that wishing boyhood knows Is but a bright, beguiling spell, Which only lives while passion glows : But when this early flush declines, When the heart’s vivid morning ficets, You know not then how close it twines Round the first kindred soul it meets ! Yes, yes, I could have loved as one Who, while his youth’s enchantments fall, Finds something dear to rest upon, Which pays him for the loss of all! ® According to Pythagoras, the people of dreams are souls collected to- gether in the galaxy. :eo ee eae . Fa328 $fati rte 3. "eee MOORE'S POEMS, TO MRS —-—_. To see thee every day that came, And find thee every day the same, In pleasure’s smile or sorrow’s tear, Benign, consoling, ever dear ! : To meet thee early, leave thee late, Had been so long my bliss, my fate, That life without this cheering ray, Which came, like sunshine, every day, And all my pain, my sorrow chased, Is now a lone and loveless waste. — Where are the chords she used to touch ? q Where are the songs she loved so much? The songs are hush’d, the chords are still, ' And so, perhaps, will every thrill . Of friendship soon be lull’d to rest, Which late I waked in Anna’s breast ! Yet no—the simple notes I play’d On memory’s tablet soon may fade; The songs which Anna loved to hear, May all be lost on Anna’s ear; But friendship’s sweet and fairy strain Shall ever in her heart remain; Nor memory lose nor time impair The sympathies which tremble there ! : os : ib adethedingh ebheuakhesahbadienioaemennns cel: kee a DO LADY: FH ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS. ee = t-putey tdi decad- erie eeeetareemeereed Geta eee Si eidechieteatihindhet be tian sake! ars *Tunnebridge est & la méme distance de Londres que Fontainebleau lest de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un ct dans autre Sexe s’'y rassemble au tems des eaux. La compagnie,” &¢c.—See Mé- moires de Grammoxt, sccond part, chap, iii, TUNBRIDGE WELLS, August 1805 WHEN Grammont graced these happy springs, And Tunbridge saw upon her pantiles The merriest wight of all the kings That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles ; Like us, by day they rode, they wall’d, At eve they did as we may do, And Grammont just like Spencer talk’d, And lovely Stewart smiled like you !MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, The only different trait is this, That woman then, if man beset her, Was rather given to saying “ Yes,” Because, as yet, she knew no better! Each night they held a coterie, Where, every fear to slumber charm’d, Lovers were all they ought to be, And husbands not the least alarm’d! Pert Leen te Ler ere int rt phebhideh bend They call’d up all their school-day pranks, Nor thought it much their sense beneath To play at riddles, quips, and cranks— And lords shew’d wit, and ladies tecth. As—“ Why are husbands like the mint?” Because, forsooth, a husband’s duty Is just to set the name and print That give a currency to beauty. “ Why is a garden’s wilder’d maze Like a young widow, fresh and fair?” Because it wants some hand to raise The weeds which “ have no business there ! 7 Twas one of those facetious nights That Grammont gave this forfeit ring For breaking grave conundrum rites, Or punning ill, or—some such thing ; From whence it can be fairly traced Through many a branch and many a bough, From twig to twig, until it graced The snowy hand that wears it now. All this I’ll prove, and then—to you, O Tunbridge! and your springs ironical, I swear by Heathcote’s eye of blue To dedicate th’ important chronicle. Long may your ancient inmates give Their mantles to your modern lodgers, And Charles’s loves in Heathcote live, And Charles’s bards revive in Rogers | Let no pedantic fools be there, For ever be these fops abolish’d With heads.as wooden as thy ware, And, Heaven knows! not half so polish’d. But still receive the mild, the gay, The few, who know the rare delight Of reading Grammont every day, And acting Grammont every night. eee eete rea De eee acetal2 paren Oe eT ce te — 7 i ieee Sinerhdivdebsaadtheasltnisdndiiodtna, naccndonded Pore bas a res et res ewer eee 1 Son he reaver at a eee eeman tone preg em pcmnearigeaye a“ tee tena ms, 2 Peni ett hear ees ee oe EPR SE TES a teeea eae! Lee e es aE ee eee ct ttt ts ts bs MOORE'S POEMS, TO Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity’s stamp, The lip that ’s so scented by roses Oh! never must smell of the lamp. Old Cloe, whose withering kisses Have long set the loves at defiance, Now done with the science of blisses, May fly to the blisses of science ! Young Sappho, for want of employments, Alone o’er her Ovid may melt, Condemn’d but to read of enjoymenis Which wiser Corinna has felt. But for you to be buried in books— O Fanny! they ’re pitiful sages Who could not in one of your looks Read more than in millions of pages! Astronomy finds in your eye Better light than she studies above, And music must borrow your sigh As the melody dearest to love. In ethics, tis you that can check In a minute their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! shew but that mole on your neck, And ’twill soon put an end to their morals. Your arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you endeavour ; But eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you’ll love me for ever. Thus you see what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you— A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to go through ! And, oh !—if a fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts ! DID NOT. "TWAS a new feeling—something more Than we had dared to own before, 2 Sy bn eecachcpn ee canst tener ita deed etabba et Pintiladiedta ett ti ee SroPelT Ts pealced a Seen nm: eae ecru theerncebors Sane Scheie cc eer iets eet = — eee ee pbriepict i bs meses trie rs ied piers et ernicr yy rast et onan werent a poner tery oreven eece it ee tart en ee pore } : A 4 4 Pe — eae aoe Loree be Eleeeed eee ee ee 4 Sophos tid ~ al ree psoas Sree At night, when all is still around, How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light ! Page 231. it hte ee et ee arenes ee eae ns beta GA eet Sad dec tees i: ari) wee: te isMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Which then we hid not; We saw it in each other’s eye, And wish’d, in every half-breathed sigh, To speak, but did not. She felt my lips’ impassion’d touch, Twas the first time I dared so much, And yet she chid not; But whisper’d o’er my burning brow, “Oh! do you doubt I love you now ?” Sweet soul! I did not, AT NIGHE* Av night, when all is still around, How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light! What pleasure in the anxious beat With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night! And then, at night, how sweet to say ‘“’Tis late, my love!’ and chide delay, Though still the western clouds are bright ; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress, With those we love exchanged at night! TO LORD ‘VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. ABOARD THE “PHAETON” FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT, Swrrt moon! if like Crotona’s sage, By any spell my hand could dare To make thy disk its ample page, And write my thoughts, my wishes there, How many a friend, whose careless eye Now wanders o’er that starry sky, Should smile upon thy orb to mect The recollection, kind and sweet, The reveries of fond regret, The promise never to forget, * These lines allude to a curious lamp, which hag for its device a Cupid, with the words ‘At Night” written over him, {+ Pythagoras.eet Coe Par ie ete ee = = i Ses eh a dh nidibetdthat diamante kk eke ets te tek 55 aon e _ Sure Fase seb decked einen lasoiinaaii gece sey ate Beant nine el ae Pelee Sactet teatee ee tate ke ee eee ce oe ee SET Rhee eater ey ee ene _ eee oe Hosp eae meant ee beband Fm heres eke es Letesttiaalas ek ere ih Teter * # @ ete 8 eo: tts Pe Oe oe te Pree ee eer ea te Phe mete s nee te roroe aren tes ” Hn agree — ~ Parola peeeeseiatete tell Spoon avi nds sree nents Seer eee eres eres nee te And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-loved, distant friend ! O Strangford! when we parted last, I little thought the times were past, For ever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart’s employ : When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We Our only use for knowledge then To turn to rapture all we knew ! Delicious days of whim and soul! When, mingling lore and laugh togethcr, We lean’d the book on Pleasure’s bow] And turn’d the leaf with Folly’s feather! I little thought that all were fled, That, My eye should see the sail unfurl’d That wafts me to the western world ! And yet ’twas time—in youthful days, To cool the season’s burning rays, The h Repose a while in Pleasure’s spring, But if The spring will dry, the heart will freeze ! And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, Oh! she awaked such happy dreams, And g For That not Verona’s child of song, When flying from the Phrygian shore, With lighter hopes could bound along, Or pant to be a wanderer more ! Even now delusive hope will steal Amid Soothing as yonder placid beam Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep ! Oh! such a blessed night as this, I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here } The se And Gently, as if it fear’d to wake MOORE'S POEMS. thought the rapid hours too few, ? ere that summer’s bloom was shed, eart may let its wanton wing it wait for winter’s breeze, ave my soul such tempting scope all its dearest, fondest schemes, the dark regrets I feel, a is like a silvery lake, o’er its calm the vessel glides rT eeet ecoMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The slumber of the silent tides ! The only envious cloud that lowers Hath hung its shade on Pico’s height,” Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, And scowling at this heaven of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form ! Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible, at this soft hour, And see the looks, the melting smiles, That brighten many an orange bower ; And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades, Oh! I should have full many a tale To tell of young Azorian maids. Dear Strangford! at this hour, perhaps, Some faithful lover (not so blest As they who in their ladies’ laps May cradle every wish to rest) Warbles, to touch his dear one’s soul, Those madrigals of breath divine Which Camoens’ harp from rapture stole And gaye, all glowing warm, to thine! Oh! could the lover learn from thee, And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such dear, beguiling minstrelsy Would make the coldest nymph his own ! But, hark !—the boatswain’s pipings tell ’Tis time to bid my dream farewell ! Eight bells :—the middle watch is set ; Good night, my Strangford !—ne’er forget That far beyond the western sea Ts one whose heart remembers thee ! STANZAS. A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest, Still heaved as remembering ills that were o’er! rer pepe ttre tee Trott bate per ripe rst es ny inact eet ct Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, * Pico is a very high mountain on one of the Azores.ete eee a = ti weet MI Ike corm aStsScpr git hcg ttc erareeeeee o hn eto Seb adeetinnhach and neaediaattdth cee rT te, res Rpts Ecechindhipstearnaeedenglepceentad bee aanpatert- pet enditahttieshatha tithe dine anuakeobladictease Lee mice ere Sara s : ware ee pant Mead ee eee te a eneen seein, nee Pe pees aa POR beSchecpe- toed eae a ated Lees Ree ee ee a is “EL Be ba bl PS E3 | rd ttre se oteens negra peer tia . MOORE'S POEMS. And the spirit becalm’d but remember’d their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled ! I thought of the days when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I! I felt how the pure intellectual fire In luxury loses its heavenly ray ; How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, The pearl of the soul may be melted away ! And I pray’d of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That pleasure no more might its purity dim; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the gem I had borrow’d from Him, The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chasten’d and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own! I look’d to the west, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: “Oh! thus,” I exclaimed, “can a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darken’d before !” TO THE FLYING FISH, WueEn I have seen thy snowy wing O’er the blue wave at evening spring, And give those scales of silver white So gaily to the eye of light, As if thy frame were form’d to rise, And live amid the glorious skies; Oh! it has made me proudly feel, How like thy wing’s impatient zeal Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest Upon the world’s ignoble breast, But takes the plume that God has given, And rises into light and heaven ! But when I see that wing so bright, Grow languid with a moment’s flight, Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into the waves again; Alas! the flattering pride is o’er; Like thee, a while, the soul may soar,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, But erring man must blush to think, Like thee, again the soul may sink! O Virtue! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit’s flight be weak : Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow, And plunge again to depths below ; But when I leave the grosser throng, With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there |! TO MISS MOORE. FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER 1808. In days, my Kate, when life was new, When lull’d with innocence and you, I heard, in home’s beloved shade, The din the world at distance made ; When every night my weary head Sunk on its own unthorned bed, And, mild as eyening’s matron hour Looks on the faintly-shutting flower, A mother saw our eyelids close, And bless’d them into pure repose ! Then, haply if a week, a day, I linger’d from my home away, How long the little absence seem’d! How bright the look of weleome beam’d. As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that pass’d the while ! Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me ; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere even your seal can reach mine eye ; And oh! even then, that darling seal (Upon whose print, I used to feel The breath of home, the cordial air Of loved lips, still freshly there !) Must come, alas! through every fate Of time and distance, cold and late. ae st ded abe nd Smee a Cental penne rier ower Deter D ee as ee eres thd Se teed de ah bceililnethe BeersSo ba ee) reese teat ee ee att ee em rs tediiediie 2 hie temic ak vs *~ is dcdeeatiinineniibihddehinninantinohinid ed taceateeeied TE re Seal ene Sas sea tne nin siccn dee spaepseta spe ore fed pet acs yt Pe a a eee a [pet Seka et eee Ce ee ne ee eee ee ees ee .* ad pert we - eigen ge erent coe eam enitatas choot Tee ALAR £4 BE be Oe OU 81 Ate Seater § MOORE'S POEMS. When the dear hand, whose touches fill’d The leaf with sweetness, may be chill’d! But hence that gloomy thought! at last, Beloved Kate! the waves are past: I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar’s living bough Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude’s divinest dies! At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and proud to claim His rank within the social frame, Sees a grand system round him roll, Himself its centre, sun and soul! Far from the shocks of Europe; far From every wild, elliptic star That, shooting with a devious fire, Kindled by Heaven’s avenging ire, So oft hath into chaos hurl’d The systems of the ancient world ! The warrior here, in arms no more, Thinks of the toil, the conflict o’er, And glorying in the rights they won Tor hearth and altar, sire and son, Smiles on the dusky webs that hide His sleeping sword’s remember’d pride ! While peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, Walks o’er the free, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there ! Thrice happy land! where he who flies From the dark ills of other skies, From scorn, or want’s unnerving woes, May shelter him in proud repose! Hope sings along the yellow sand His welcome to a patriot land; The mighty wood, with pomp, receives The stranger, in its world of leaves, Which soon their barren glory yield To the warm shed and cultured field; And he, who came, of all bereft, To whom malignant fate had left Nor home nor friends nor country dear, Finds home and friends and country here { Suchvis the picture, warmly such, That long the spell of fancy’s touchMISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Hath painted to my sanguine eye Of man’s new world of liberty ! Oh! ask me not if truth will seal The reveries of fancy’s zeal, If yet my charmed eyes behold These features of an age of gold— No—yet, alas! no gleaming trace! Never did youth, who loved a face From portrait’s rosy, flattering art, Recoil with more regret of heart, To find an owlet eye of gray, Where painting pour’d the sapphire’s ray, Than I have felt, indignant felt, To think the glorious dreams should melt, Which oft in boyhood’s witching time Have rapt me to this wondrous clime! But, courage yet, my wavering heart ! Blame not the temple’s meanest part Till you have traced the fabric o’er. As yet we have beheld no more Than just the porch to freedom’s fane, And though a sable drop may stain The vestibule, ’tis impious sin To doubt there’s holiness within ! So here I pause—and now, my Kate. To you (whose simplest ringlet’s fate Can claim more interest in my soul Than all the powers from pole to pole) One word at parting; in the tone ig Most sweet to you, and most my own. it The simple notes I send you here, * Though rude and wild, would still be dear, Tf you but knew the trance of thought, In which my mind the murmurs caught. ’Twas one of those enchanting dreams ’ That lull me oft, when music seems ‘ To pour the soul in sound along, And turn its every sigh to song! J thought of home, the according lays Respired the breath of happier days ; Warmly in every rising note J felt some dear remembrance float, Till, led by music’s fairy chain, J wander’d back to home again! Oh! love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in warble soft! A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this epistle.our erg cars fe a pip adeteiemhedbabibndauabtbieaaemmedidt te te eae 29 Sw PeReteawtcchr Sonepeetertres terete terreet . . ee ore — pheasants fae ot Mere or mieten atepee Ba MOORE'S POEMS. Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its murmurs tell, Of memory’s glow, of dreams that shed The tinge of joy when joy is fled, And all the heart’s illusive hoard Of love renew’d and friends restored ! Now, sweet, adieu !—this artless air, And a few rhymes in transcript fair Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia’s coast ; ‘But when the sun, with warmer smile, Shall light me to my destined isle, * You shall have many a cowslip bell Where Ariel slept, and many a shell In which the genile spirit drew From honey flowers the morning dew ! A BALLAD. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. “They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never after- wards heard of. As he had frequently said in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.”—Anon. “‘La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature.” —D’ Alembert. “TnEy made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,*+ Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe, And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near!” Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds— His path was rugged and sore, ® Bermuda. + The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drum- mond’s Pond.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before! And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirr’d the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, _ Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, “Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear?” - He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play d— “Welcome,” he said, “ my dear one’s light!” + And the dim shore echoed for many a night The name of the death-cold maid! Till he hollow’d a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore ; Far he follow’d the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return’d no more, But oft, from the Indian hunter’s camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! TQ THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY 1804. Lapy ! where’er you roam, whatever beam Of bright creation warms your mimic dream ; Whether you trace the valley’s golden meads, Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads ; * Enamour’d catch the mellow hues that sleep At eve on Meillerie’s immortal steep ; Or musing o’er the Lake, at day’s decline, Mark the last shadow on the holy shrine, * Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzerland. ¢ The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Lucerne.iid eoueanee ea Diese eaten tek ane at eee Meet oe: ee eee nr Methatiaentbestbannabekion abe ce teeaes [ee eve ake eens nati ot Pathe aedbed pas aeteeioiies raneael es Paetge ae Fst aoe pao MOORE'S POEMS. Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains Of Gallia’s triumph and Helvetia’s chains ; Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by, Turn from the tablet that creative eye, And let its splendour, like the morning ray Upon a shepherd’s harp, illume my lay! Yet, Lady ! no—for song so rude as mine, Chase not the wonders of your dream divine; Still, radiant eye! upon the tablet dwell; Still, rosy finger! weave your pictured spell ; And, while I sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, Oh! might the song awake some bright design, Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, Proud were my soul to see its humble thought On painting’s mirror so divinely caught, And wondering Genius, as he lean’d to trace The faint conception kindling into grace, Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, And bless the lay that lent a charm to you! Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray’d T’o the pure isles of ever-blooming shade, Which bards of old, with kindly magic, placed For happy spirits in th’ Atlantic waste ? There as eternal gales, with fragrance warm, Breathed from Elysium through each shadowy form, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charm’d their lapse of nightless hours along | Nor yet in song that mortal ear may suit, For every spirit was itself a lute, Where virtue waken’d, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies ! Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Floated our bark to this enchanted land These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, Like studs of emerald o’er a silver zone ; Not all the charm that ethnic fancy gave To blessed arbours o’er the western wave Could wake a dream more soothing or sublime, Of bowers ethereal and the spirit’s clime ! The morn was lovely, every wave was still, When the first perfume of a cedar-hill Sweetly awaked us, and with smiling charms, The fairy harbour woo’d us to its arms.” * The little harbour of St George’s. lsiutinhs eke ee ee Sonne et 2 at toet te Le oe te Sorte ith-tnetrteems : oes ie2sis-e f phresta on MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Gently we stole, before the languid wind, Through plaintain shades, that like an awning twined And kiss’d on either side the wanton sails, Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; White, far reflected o’er the wave serene, Each wooded island shed so soft a green, That the enamour’d keel, with whispering play, Through liquid herbage seem’d to steel its way ! Never did weary bark more sweetly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide ! Along the margin, many a brilliant dome, While as the palace of a Lapland gnome, Brighten’d the wave; in every myrtle grove Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love, ‘Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And while the foliage interposing play’d, Wreathing the structure into various grace, Fancy would love, in many a form, to trac The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius; and I seem’d to gaze On marble from the rich Pentelic mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad’s fount, Sweet airy being !* who, in brighter hours, Lived on the perfume of these honey’d bowers, In velvet buds, at evening loved to lie, And win with music every rose’s sigh! Though weak the magic of my humble strain, To charm your spirit from its orb again, Yet, oh! for her, beneath whose smile I sing, For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing Were dimm’d or ruffled by a wintry sky, Could smooth its feather and relume its dye) A moment wander from your starry sphere, And if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, The sparkling grotto can delight you still, Oh! take their fairest tint, their softiest light, Weave all their beauty into dreams of night, And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Shed the warm picture o’er her mental eyes Borrow for sleep her own creative spells, And brightly shew what song but faintly tells ! * Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye, we cannot | for an instant forget that itis the scene of Shakspeare’s Tempest, and that | here he conjured up the ‘delicate Ariel,” who alone is worth heaven of ancient mythology. bedded Chriss 24) er pists hf tn Serie ty parent Lib bbboblaeieman eee eet irri = om tb ad Cr Cath eee eed vs bape Ps behsbae o the whole | QRea bnnect trie etree bes weapon mehr crete tent Sri * i enscnatesetes po eer rer raat Sr eteaeneas bene sates deaeiaeteelnainenaiemiedamees PO ac tae PEWS peed Smt bere Peete MOORE’S POEMS. TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ., OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. From Bermuda, January 1804. On what a tempest whirl’d us hither ! Winds whose savage breath could wither All the light and languid flowers That bloom in Epicurus’ bowers ! Yet think not, George, that fancy’s charm Forsook me in this rude alarm, When close they reef’d the timid sail, When, every plank complaining loud, We labour’d in the midnight gale, And even our haughty mainmast bow’d } The muse, in that unlovely lour, Benignly brought her soothing power. And, midst the war of waves and wind, In song’s elysian lapp’d my mind! She open’d, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays Those little gems of poesy, Which time has saved from ancient days ! Take one of these, to Lais sung, I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon “suspended animation !” “ Sweetly you kiss, my Lais dear ! But while you kiss I feel a tear, Bitter as those when lovers part, In mystery from your eye-lid start ! Sadly you lean your head to mine, And round my neck in silence twine, Your hair along my bosom spread, All humid with the tears you shed ! Have I not kiss’d those lids of snow ? Yet still, my love, like founts they flow, Bathing our cheeks, whene’er they meet — Why is it thus? do tell me, sweet ! Ah, Lais! are my bodings right? Arm I to lose you? is to-night Our last—go, false to Heaven and me ! Your very tears are treachery.” Such, while in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgante mio | The Muse and I together sung,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ‘With Boreas to make out the trio. But, bless the little fairy isle ! How sweetly after all our ills, We saw the dewy morning hills Serenely o’er its fragrant smile And felt the pure, elastic flow Of airs that round this Eden blow With honey freshness, caught by stealth Warm from the very lips of health ! Oh! could you view the scenery dear That now beneath my window lies, You’d think that nature lavish’d here Her purest wave, her softest skies, To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in! Close to my wooded bank below, In grassy calm the waters sleep, And to the sunbeam proudly show The coral rocks they love to steep! The fainting breeze of morning fails, The drowsy boat moves slowly past, And I can almost touch its sails That languish idly round the mast. The sun has now profusely given The flashes of a noontide heaven, And, as the wave reflects his beams, Another heaven its surface seems ! Blue light and clouds of silvery tears So pictured o’er the waters lie, That every languid bark appears To float along a burning sky ! Oh for the boat the angel gave To him who in his heavenward flight Sail’d, o’er the sun’s ethereal wave, T'o planet-isles of odorous light ! Sweet Venus, what a clime he found Within thy orb’s ambrosial round ! There spring the breezes, rich and warm, That pant around thy twilight car; There angels dwell, so pure of form, That each appears a living star! These are the sprites, O radiant queen ! Thou sendst so often to the bed Of her I love, with spell unseen, Thy planet’s bright’ning balm to shed ; rreres rs baa ort Perens Erte Lanett eats ta ara eere err! Aerie earth r pri T bt) neces ert peaeeets eeeaT eye ee ES ele tree era oe a ee ay eet teetee sn teet senee treet ee ee Se cpdepeienae panne Catone pepterisac sire wazererany eget ab wd iene ea et te ene ene til etl thal dn Te ii... erie * aie% iniieipiehs dediindthemllnndsdh thes Sad, nedichahahanpeeamodek ake to MOORE’S POEMS, To make the eye’s enchantment clearer, To give the cheek one rosebud more, And bid that flushing lip be dearer, Which had been, oh! so dear before ! But whither means the Muse to roam ? *Tis time to call the wanderer home. Who could have ever thought to search 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! Fare you well !—remember too, When cups are flowing to the brim, That here is one who drinks to you, And, oh !—as warmly drink to him, LINES, WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA, Ou! there’s a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne’er was given To rapture’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 to-morrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure’s throb or tears of sorrovy 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 drain’d life’s cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey drop to shed Round misery’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,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS . ODES TO NEA, WRITTEN AT BERMUDA, I 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 pass his loveless nights Unfever’d by her false delights, Thither my wounded soul would fly, Where rosy cheek or radiant eye Should bring no rnore their bliss, their pain, Or 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 enamouring shone! How many hours were idly past, As if such bliss must ever last, Unmindful of the fleeting day, Have I dissolved life’s dream away ! Oh bloom of time profusely shed ! Oh moments! simply, vainly fled, Yet sweetly too—for love perfumed The flame which thus my life consumed; And brilliant was the chain of flowers, In whichehe led my victim-hours ! Say, Nea dear! couldst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder, My thoughtless soul might wish to wander, Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim, Endearing still, reproaching never, Till all my heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fix’d than ever ? Sear errs pynad wate st Perv ast dah tis roo emategs Crate ene ett er tent Seer nertiore tes rae hr irsraet phen tunaae e< = Tre Pet rs * aren hess ce ahoer egret Saree: } fi pois atctibdineiin 2ton oes a voeaee es Pet ese ee sora ee ST eee ae ee ere ee rrrhy ended pnt Poder diaper e ET . ee ere geneween puibeahede ee ene bein eee ee ee aos ‘fete “pared Paral 246 MOORES POEMS, No, no—on earth there ’s only one Could bind such faithless folly fast: And sure on earth ’tis I 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 3 I’ll praise, admire, and worship thee, But must not, dare not love again. ET, You read it in my languid 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! Divinely through the graceful dance, You seem’d to float in silent song, Bending to earth that beamy glance, As if to light your steps along ! Oh! how could others dare to touch That hallow’d form with hand so free, When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but heaven 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, I wildly turn’d, My soul forgot—nor, oh! condemn, ‘That when such eyes before me burn’d, My soul forgot all eyes but them ! That moment did the mingled eyes Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, through earth and skies But vou alone—but only you!MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, III, A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY. I sust had turn’d the classic page, And traced that happy period over, When love could warm the proudest sage, And wisdom grace the tenderest lover ! Before I laid me down to sleep, Upon the bank a while I stood, And saw the vestal planet weep Her tears of light on Ariel’s flood. My heart was full of fancy’s dream, And as I watch’d the playful stream, Entangling in its net of smiles So fair a group of elfin isles, I felt as if the scenery there Were lighted by a Grecian sky— As if I breathed the blissful air That yet was warm with Sappho’s sigh ! And now the downy hand of rest Her signet on my eyes imprest, And still the bright and balmy spell, Like star-dew, o’er my fancy fell ! I thought that, all enrapt, I stray’d Through that serene, luxurious shade Where Epicurus taught the Loves To polish Virtue’s native brightness, Just as the beak of playful doves Can give to pearls a smoother whiteness.* Twas one of those delicious nights So common in the climes of Greece, When day withdraws but half its lighta, And all is moonshine, balm, and peace ! And thou wert there, my own beloved! And dearly by thy side I roved Through many a temple’s reverent gloom, And many a bower’s enticing bloom, Where beauty learn’d and wisdom taught, Where lovers sigh’d and sages thought, *% This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them a while to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus, De Rerun Varieat, lib. vii., cap. 34 oe aeerke ree #8 Wades e i-iedtintheba dle et Prager Ts oreeet diel Pent iel re era bhi e 2 rears aeranaher Sohne8s es 21 ill inededentindgh aaelaemiahieatinentiabitamemeninte ce hee etka teow ee kat beahererstedparhetwiteter saree rctteadetet rar tretiees petite gedsas: penne pa eed a le — Poet - ecblaceas a pmemen ret eens ead oe Leena kl os eT” OR eh 238 Ete MOORE'S POEMS. Where hearts might feel or heads discern, And all was form’d to soothe or move, To make the dullest love to learn, To make the coldest learn to love! And now the fairy pathway seem’d To lead us through enchanted ground Where all that bard has ever dream’d Of love or luxury bloom’d around ! Oh! ’twas a bright, bewildering scene Along the alley’s deepening green Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers, And scented and illumed the bowers, Seem’d as to him, who darkling roves Amid the lone Hercynian groves, Appear the countless birds of light, That sparkle in the leaves at night, And from their wings diffuse a ray Along the weary traveller’s way *Twas light of that mysterious kind Through which the soul is doom’d to roam When it has left this world behind, And gone to seek its heavenly home ! And, Nea, thou didst look and move, Like any blooming soul of bliss, That wanders to its home above Through mild and shadowy light like this ! But now, methought, we stole along Through halls of more voluptuous glory Than ever lived in Teian song, Or wanton’d in Milesian story ! And nymphs were there, whose very eyes Seem’d almost to exhale in sighs; Whose every little ringlet thrill’d As if with soul and passion fill’d; Some flew with amber cups around, Shedding the flowery wines of Crete, And as they pass’d with youthful bound, The onyx shone beneath their feet : While others, waving arms of snow Entwined by snakes of burnish’d gold, With fairy form, as loath to shew, Through many a thin Tarentian fold, Glided along the festal ring With vases, all respiring spring, Where roses lay, in languor breathing, And the young bee-grape round them wreathing,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Hung on their blushes warm and meek, Like curls upon a rosy cheek ! O Nea! why did morning break The spell that so divinely bound me? Why did I wake? how could I wake With thee my own, and heaven around me! TV. WELL, peace to thy heart, though another's it be, And health to.thy cheek, though it bloom not for me ! To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves, Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, And, far from thine eye, oh! perhaps, I may yet Tts allurement forgive and its splendour forget! Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume ; May spring to eternity hallow the shade, Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray’d ! And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam Through the lime-cover’d alley that leads to thy home, Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, I have led thee along, and have told by the way What my heart all the night had been burning to say— Oh! think of the past—give a sigh to those times, And a blessing for me to that alley of limes! Vi. Ir I were yonder wave, my dear, And thou the isle it clasps around, I would not let a foot come near My land of bliss, my fairy ground ! If I were yonder conch of gold, And thou the pearl within it placed, I would not let an eye behold The sacred gem my arms embraced ! If I were yonder orange-tree, And thou the blossom blooming thera, I would not yield a breath of thee, To scent the most imploring air !Sehciesatie taeda Sade tee are ere Oe ee ee ee ee os brer-meneeee mest ee apetea edbapussinteabel Seed eed oa . ester Rhone emtnberertene neers roe en edited tak eee r poems aes ern ee ee r baputi. ttn hae = ik Gipadd tenth ee EMS. MOORES PO Oh! bend not o’er the waters brink, Give not the wave that rosy sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink The soft reflection of thine eye. That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, Upon the billows pour their beam So warmly, that my soul could seek Its Nea in the painted stream. Behold the leafy mangrove, bending O’er the waters blue and bright, Like Nea’s silky lashes, lending Shadow to her eyes of light ! O my beloved! where’er I turn, Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes, In every star thy glances burn, Thy blush on every floweret lies. I pray thee, on those lips of thine To wear this rosy leaf for me, And breathe of something not divine, Since nothing human breathes of thee ! All other charms of thine I meet In nature, but thy sigh alone; Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet, The breath of roses for thine own! So, while [ walk the flowery grove, The bud that gives, through morning dew The luster of the lips I love. May seem to give their perfume too | Vi. THE SNOW-SPIRIT, No, ne’er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules’ arms! The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, Their melody balm to the ear; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow-Spirit never comes here !MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul! Oh! fly to the clime where he pillows the death As he cradles the birth of the year; : Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! . How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O’er the brow of each virginal thorn ! Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, Is the veil of a vestal severe ; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here } But fly to his region—lay open thy zone, And he’ll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom as white as his own Should not melt in the day-beam like him! Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O’er his luminous path will appear— Fly ! my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here } Vie I stone along the flowery bank, While many a bending sea-grape* drank The sprinkle of the feathery oar That wing’d me round this fairy shore ! *Twas noon; and every orange bud ung languid o’er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden eyés Beneath a lovér’s burning sighs! Oh for a Naiad’s sparry bower, To shade me in that glowing hour! A little dove, of milky hue, Before me from a plantain flew, And, light along the water’s brim, I steer’d my gentle bark by him; * The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies, ensanceriiodat- peri reentt risks rien eamarte os a See st ca oo aie aes i tt nein eet Ltt he Le ek res nae ee ee . ober ooes ye arta a i yo tear ste ears arb rere: MOORE’S POEMS, For fancy told me love had sent This snowy bird of blandishment To lead me where my soul should meet— I knew not what, but something sweet ! Blest be the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by love To guide me to a scene so dear, As Fate allows but seldom here ; One of those rare and brilliant hours Which, like the aloe’s lingering flowers, May blossom to the eye of man But once in all his weary span ! Just where the margin’s opening shade A vista from the waters made, My bird reposed his silver plume Upon a rich banana’s bloom. O vision bright! O spirit fair! What spell, what magic raised her there ? "Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild, And bloomy as the dimpled child, Whose spirit in Elysium keeps Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps! The broad banana’s green embrace Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace - One little beam alone could win The leaves to let it wander in, And stealing over all her charms, From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, In glowing pencillings of light, All trembling, pour’d its radiance bright ! Her eyelids black and silken fringe Lay on her cheek of vermil tinge Like the first ebon cloud that closes Dark on evening’s heaven of roses ! Her glances, though in slumber hid, Seem’d glowing through their ivory lid, And o’er her lip’s reflecting dew A soft and liquid lustre threw, Such as, declining dim and faint, The lamp of some beloved saint Doth shed upon a flowery wreath, Which pious hands have hung beneath !MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. WALL BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; *Tis hallow’d by the touch of them Who lived in classic hours of old. Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem display’d, Nor*thought that time’s eternal lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid ! IX. THERE’S not a look, a word of thine My soul has e’er forgot ; Thou ne’er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not! There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell, Jiike something heaven had sung. Ah! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so— And yet, thou witching girl !—and yet, To die were sweeter than to let The loved remembrance go! No; if this slighted heart must see Its faithful pulse decay, Oh! let it die, remembering thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away ! a Eira ‘ Masia breedPues rereenrr rer ane eta SSeS sen " Lcibetebs ate eee m fe ahersieibenaabadannamenatings ahblekihindbthentiend Aocisddeased kek Eopobseci os tern esecssoepee berets reece tanta) arene ert MOORE'S POEMS. TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ, PROM BERMUDA. March. “Tun daylight is gone—but before we depart, One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, To the kindest, the dearest—oh! judge by the tear, That I shed while I name him, how kind and how dear!” ’*Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree, With a few who could feel and remember like me, ‘he charm that to sweeten my goblet I threw, Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you ! Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus’s dew, In blossoms of thought ever springing and new ! Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him, | 1 \ ' | } | | Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, And would pine in Elysium, if friends were not there! Last night, when we came from the calabash-tree, When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day Put the magical springs of my fancy in play, And oh !—such a vision as haunted me then | I could slumber for ages to witness again ! | The many I like, and the few I adore, | The friends who were dear and beloved before, | But never till now so beloved and dear, | At the call of my fancy surrounded me here ! | Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile | To a paradise brighten the blest little isle; | Serener the wave, as they look’d on it, flow’d, | And warmer the rose, as they gather’d it, glow’d Not the valleys Hereean (though water'd by rills | Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,* Where the song of the shepherd, primeval and wild, Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child) Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given By the magic of love to this miniature heaven ! * Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Oh magic of love! unembellish’d by you, Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue? Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart? Alas! that a vision so happy should fade ! That, when morning around me in brilliancy play’d, The rose and the stream I had thought of at night Should still be before me, unfadingly bright ; While the friends, who had seem’d to hang over the stream, And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream! But see, through the harbour, in floating array, The bark that must carry these pages away, Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind ! What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be, And the sound of those gales would be music to me! Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew, Were as sweet as the breeze, or as white as the foam Of the wave that wouid carry your wanderer home ! THE STEERSMAN’S SONG. WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 28TH APRIL. WueEn freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly; When lighter breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky ; *Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle’s faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy! port. When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish to steer; When by the wind close-haul’d we go, And strive in vain the port to near ; I think ’tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that’s far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails, and sighing say, Thus, my boy! thus. ubdsbh pe 1 Pir ese tepietats Pin poben Poy abba Peuoaet on Peetbensted Peherneht teed tee ct Lice nihd bike Chea tit Tee ee ater err tt eres ae Penecrrte eenPe Pewee 2 more Nese enans meme nt- sete tears rs Fopting bade iedhamed oe nee noe ie bead: terete vs labo yey eetere ed Oe ee . coeeai Bs re Ne artes eaemns ne’ peers — PF PTR oe coms name emets PPE Pe Mien tt - A - ‘ i at Se Re ae | eat eek ade tie teen a ae ea ete a eee MOORE'S POEMS. But see, the wind draws kindly aft, All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu’n-sails waft Our stately ship through waves and air, Oh! then I think that yet for me Sume breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee! And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy! so. TO THE FIRE-FLY. THIS morning, when the earth and sky Were burning with the blush of spring, I saw thee not, thou humble fly ! Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing. But now the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, I see thee, and I bless thee too For sparkling o’er the dreary way. Oh ! let me hope that thus for me, When life and love shall loose their bloom, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To light, if not to warm, the gloom ! TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES. FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, Ir former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their shadowy race, Nor o’er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man ; lf every age, in new unconscious prime, Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time, To wing its way unguided and alone, The future smiling and the past unknown; Then ardent man would to himself be new, Earth at his foot and heaven within his view,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, Could tell him, fool’s had dream’d as much before ! But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, The plans of virtue ’midst the deeds of crime, The thinking follies and the reasoning rage Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; When still we see, through every varying frame Of arts and polity, his course the same, And know that ancient fools but died to make A space on earth for modern fools to take; *Tis strange how quickly we the past forget; That wisdom’s self should not be tutor’d yet, Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth Of pure perfection ’midst the sons of earth! Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, Could jead us thus to look on earth for heaven; O’er dross without to shed the flame within, And dream of virtue while we gaze on sin! Even here, beside the proud Potomac’s stream, Might sages still pursue the flattering theme Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, Rise o’er the level of his mortal state, Belie the monuments of frailty past, And stamp perfection on this world at last. “ Here,” might they say, ‘‘shall power’s divided reign Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. Here godlike Liberty’s Herculean youth, Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by Truth To full maturity of nerve and mind, Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind! Here shall religion’s pure and balmy draught, In form no more from cups of state be quaff’d, But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. Around the columns of the public shrine Shall growing arts their gradual wreath entwine, Nor breathe corruption from their flowering braid, Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade. No longer here shall Justice bound her view, Or wrong the many while she rights the few; But take her range through all the social frame, Pure and pervading as that vital flame, Which warms at once our best and meanest part, And thrills a hair while it expands a heart !”~ on Pinnatetinttiaatereeteheaee eae eaaa easter Spstae Baste teateteaoae teat o Fray eterna tr em ca coos hectic aoe de) ore 4 MOORE'S POEMS. Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan The brightness rather than the shades of man, That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, And loves the world with all its frailty still— What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine ! Yes, dearest Forbes, I see thee glow to think The chain'of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead’s throne ! But is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from Truth that dim, uncertain gleam, Which bids us give such dear delusion scope, As kills not reason, while it nurses hope ? No, no, believe me, ’tis not so—even now, While yet upon Columbia’s rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays, Her bloom is poison’d and her heart decays ! Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death, And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, {* She’s old in youth, she’s blasted in her prime ! Already has the child of Gallia’s school, The foul philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken, after Nilus’ flood, The venom’d birth of sunshine and of mud ! Already has she pour’d her poison here O’er every charm that makes existence dear, Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue’s stem, the flowerets of her fruit ! Oh! were these errors but the wanton tids Of young luxuriance or unchasten’d pride ; he fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much, Then might experience make the fever less, * <¢ What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early de- crepit?” Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Phila- delphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our eruisers in the year 1794 Tn - a — omaMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess} But no; ’tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth’s transgression with all ages’s chill. The apathy of wrong, the bosom’s ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice! Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage And latest folly of man’s sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear! Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turn’d life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad, that virtue’s self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade! Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordain’d by fate, To shew the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings— Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country’s sacred fire, Like Afric’s priests, they let the flame for hire! Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England’s debtors to be England’s foes,* Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length the mineral’s tempting hue Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too. O Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they number’d all, From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal cf words, Born to be slaves and struggling to be lords, But pant for licence, while they spurn control, And shout for rights, with rapine in their soul! Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery, * T trust I shall not be suspected of a wish to justify those arbitrary steps of the English Government which the Colonies found it so necessary to re- sist; my only object here is to expose the selfish motives of some of the leading American demagogucs. SEN ornare poesia i Cetateed edellbchetetelelaeededdetele-eniedes rs | (Patle 3s 4 2 MOORES POEMS. Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o’er Columbia’s plains ? To think that man, thou just and gentle God ! Should stand before Thee, with a tyrant’s rod O’er creatures like himself, with souls from Thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty ; Away, away—I’d rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan’s beck, In climes where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claim’d, Than thus to live, where bastard freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where (motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free) Alike the bondage and the licence suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute ! ee a But, O my Forbes! while thus, in flowerless song, I feebly paint what yet I feel so strong, The ills, the vices of the land, where first Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nursed ! Where treason’s arm by royalty was nerved, And Frenchmen learn’d to crush the throne they served— Thou gently lull’d in dreams of classic thought, By bards illumined and by sages taught, Pant’st to be all, upon this mortal scene, That bard hath fancied, or that sage hath been ! Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart ! ee Peet teeeiestareees > a poree: — — * oad tittmentiddidn bk eedek kas aie the kee ee ion ceeieiinniie tte het apne pete rr ed Forgive me, Forbes—and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can! Oh! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes Thy talents open, and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him! Yes, yes in him the erring world forget, And feel that man may reach perfection yet ! henc Pesheprereperertenrsee oe faith kee ee Recediteededk nad ee Pegrrresee pl dll So ne EY mee ieee6 a$c355-% MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M.D. FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. "Tis evening now; the heats and cares of day In twilight dews are calmly wept away. The lover now, beneath the western star, Sighs through the medium of his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy ! In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, Come, let me lead thee o’er this modern Rome ! * Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now! + This famed metropolis, where fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees ; Which travelling fools and gazetteers adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn. And look, how soft in yonder radiant wave, The dying sun prepares his golden grave! O great Potomac! O you banks of shade! You mighty scenes, in nature’s morning made, While still, in rich magnificence of prime, She pour’d her wonders, lavishly sublime, Nor yet had learn’d to stoop, with humbler care, From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair ! Say were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, And woman charm and man deserve her love ! Oh! was a world so bright but born to grace Its own half-organised, half-minded race oe Of weak barbarians, swarming o’er its breast, Like vermin, gender’d on the lion’s crest? Where none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demigods should dare to roam ? Or worse, thou mighty world! oh! doubly worse, Did Heaven design the lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, * On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the federal city, (says Mr Weld,) the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. ; : + A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose-Creek. { The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American In- dian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr Jefferson has given us. ea Pcie Codtet tase tery erie Dh cie rs cemented ceocary P , nr F ° , ee eifiesegii?: oe) 4 sd Pees: ss ee. # “ = it } 3 shee HHH ibe ee — - : Cee Sates Se mste es ee ee oe ee aT te, Cc Ceres Ce ee oe Saeatnatdedl x sainenip albiaeaiinecein ca FS > erat tae er SINAN era mn - ag ett ae Sere ot hates see et oF coy a pommel bce chee eee i fre jeri er ouept MOORE'S POEMS, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime, Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere In full malignity to rankle here ? But hush !—observe that little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the fire-fly shines, There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptured image of that veteran chief,* Who lost the rebel’s in the hero’s name, And stepp’d o’er prostrate loyalty to fame ; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch, that their mob might reign | How shall we rank thee upon glory’s page ? Thou more than soldier and just less than sage ! Too form’d for peace to act a conqueror’s part, Too train’d in camps to learn a statesman’s art, Nature design’d thee for a hero’s mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold, While warmer souls command, nay, make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great, Yet fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less prompt at glory’s than at duty’s claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, Far less than all thou hast forborne to be ! Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome—and in those princely halls, If thou canst hate, as, oh! that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous and reveres the great, If thou canst loath and execrate with me That Gallic garbage of philosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes ! If thou hast got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the reat, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and winds beneath a mob’s control, Which courts the rabble’s smile, the rabble’s nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god ! There, in those walls—but, burning tongue, forbear ! Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that’s there: * Onasmall hill, near the capitol, there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. So here I pause—and now, my Hume! we part; But oh! full oft, in magic dreams of heart, Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear By Thames at home, or by Potomac here! O’er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, Midst bears and Yankees, democrats and frogs, Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise! While I, as oft, in witching thought shall rove To thee, to friendship, and that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfever’d and serene ; Where sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he! LINES, WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA, ALONE by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; Rut far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh ! O Nature ! though blessed and bright are thy rays, O’er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own! Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languish’d to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been kiss’d by his feet ! But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name, And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something sweeter than fame Nor did woman—O woman! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ; Whether sunn’d in the tropics or chill’d at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too ! Nor did she her enamouring magic deny, That magic his heart had relinquish’d so long, Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye, Like them did it soften and weep at his song! ‘ delebetieaaaad beldeieeeekiemtenie et pott Ke tee bidebh anid bls thats tt te ies pond eR ee derae ee a eas eS es tc ee Deh eatentabdetine hadi sebelah sealert te kee we Ce eee ee eee rel ee peed tone Pema ee dere eae Sekt ee Re se ar sir seo ee +a ty ora he i a ee aie ee o oesonteie aoe ee Miedo ee he, eee PAL oe oe oe ee cetera eeennrmerens : Meira De eee $2 806 genet sem, oes te aos be ty rege igs en MOORE’S POEMS, Oh! blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o’er his wandering dream ! Oh! blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam! The stranger is gone—but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toil he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he stray’d by the wave of the Schuylkill alone! LINES, WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALL OF THE MOHAWK RI VER, From rise of morn till set of sun I’ve seen the mighty Mohawk run, And as I mark’d the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard’s midnight glass ; And as I view’d the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untired and wild Through shades that frown’d and flowers that smil’d Flying by every green recess That woo’d him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind! Oh! I have thought, and thinking sigh’d— How like to thee, thou heartless tide ! May be the lot, the life of him, Who roams along thy water’s brim ! Through what alternate shades of woe, And flowers of joy my path may go How many an humble, still retreat May rise to court my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest ! But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I see the world’s bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the lost current cease to run ! May heayen’s forgiving rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft, as now it hangs o’er thee} 2MISCELLANEOUS POEMS SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. Now the vapour hot and damp; Shed by day’s expiring lamp, | Through the misty ether spreads Every ill the white man dreads ; Fiery fever’s thirsty thrill, Fitful ague’s shivering chill! Hark ! I hear the traveller's song, As he winds the woods along! Christian ! ’tis the song of fear ; Wolves are round thee, night is near, And the wild thou darest to roam— Oh! ’twas once the Indian’s home !* Hither, sprites who love to harm, Whereso’er you work your charm, By the creeks, or by the brakes, Where the pale witch feeds her snakes, And the cayman + loves to creep, Torpid, to his wintry sleep: Where the bird of carrion flits, And the shuddering murderer sits, Lone beneath a roof of blood, While upon his poison’d food, From the corpse of him he slew Drops the chill and gory dew ! Hither bend you, turn you hither, Eyes that blast and wings that wither ! Cross the wandering Christian’s way, Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, Many a mile of maddening error, Through the maze of night and terror, Till the morn behold him lying O’er the damp earth, pale and dying ! Mock him, when his eager sight Seeks the cordial cottage-light ; x “The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehanna and the adjacent country until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of four thousand men, drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaceustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hun- dred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped.” —Morse's American Geography. : { The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.ei keen otek ke ee tae ee ae Re = seMiehiitiadiaee neat dake Le pesipiaeadiati, nan skeet ak col tel Rcechathedeetie- beat Sete eek eeOrieset pts Lt Beahou-tetebbresietietead Been tt eoeninver notion ones neotarin ere oe Settee te 266 MOORE'S POEMS. Gleam then, like the lightning-bug, Tempt him to the den that’s dug For the foul and famish’d brood Of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood ! Or, unto the dangerous pass O’er the deep'and dark morass, Where the trembling Indian brings Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, Tributes to be hung in air To the fiend presiding there ! Then, when night’s long labour past, Wilder’d, faint, he falls at last, Sinking where the causeway’s edge Moulders in the slimy sedge, There let every noxious thing Trail its filth and fix its sting ; Let the bull-toad taint him over, Round him let musquitoes hover, In his ears and eye-balls tingling, With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires ! TO THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER, FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIQ, THOU oft hast told me of the fairy hours Thy heart has number'd in those classic bowers Where ancy sees the ghost of ancient wit "Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit, And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid, Haunt every stream and sing through every shade ! There still the bard, who (if his numbers be His tongue’s light echo) must have talk’d like thee, The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught hose playful, sunshine holidays of thought, Tn which the basking soul reclines and glows, Warm without toil and brilliant in repose. There still he roves, and laughing loves to see How modern monks with ancient rakes agree ; There, too, are all those wanderin g souls of song, With whom thy spirit hath communed go long, Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hung — By memory’s magic on thy sparkling tongue.ed MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 267: | | j ee eons er eniy Se bes But here, alas! by Erie’s stormy lake, As far from thee my lonely course I take, No bright remembrance o’er the fancy plays, No classic dream, no star of other days Has left that visionary glory here, That relic of its light, so soft, so dear, Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, The humblest shed, where genius once has been | som, bila detelets and bee Perron rire ries Ls Eat te hide deictetbeh set doch th hia ete d tas GaP eh tas Tit roel i) All that creation’s varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, Bright lakes expand and conquering * rivers flow ; | Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray, The world ’s a wilderness and man but clay, Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows ! | Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats, and all | From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, From man the savage, whether slaved or free, To man the civilised, less tame than he! ’*Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Betwixt half-polish’d and half-barbarous life ; Where every ill the ancient world can brew Is mix’d with every grossness of the new; Where all corrupts, though little can entice, And nothing’s known of luxury but vice! Ts this the region, then, is this the clime For golden fancy ? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel ? No, no—the muse of inspiration plays O’er every scene; she walks the forest-maze, And climbs the mountain; every blooming spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not! She whispers round, her words are in the air, But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there, Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One ray of heart to thaw them into song! Yet, yet forgive me, O you sacred few ! Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, Twas bliss to live with, and ’twas pain to leave! Less dearly welcome were the lines of lore The exile saw upon the sandy shore, ® This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix’s striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.= 2 7 | Ps coat Fie bebe et te “Sevemenki s theitehy) i oe rer S385 ine » a E $ er , : t 2 Peis Pe ae oc Fo. &o be bc £5 25 eS gs eat, 4 7 ec : 2. th ft ae id Bf a8 de 7 i On : a | i 268 MOORE'S POEMS. When his lone heart but faintly hoped to find a One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind! ' Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The manly polish and the illumined taste, Which, ’mid the melancholy, heartless waste My foot has wander’d, O you sacred few ! I found by Delaware’s green banks with you. Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs O’er your fair country and corrupts its sons ; yo Long love the arts, the glories which adorn Those fields of freedom where your sires were born. Oh ! if America can yet be great, If neither chain’d by choice nor damn’d by fate To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow Of single majesty, can grandly place An empire's pillar upon freedom’s base, Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove For the fair capital that flowers above !— If yet, released from all that vulgar throng, So vain of dulness and so pleased with wrong, Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride, She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, And see her poets flash the fires of song, To light her warriors’ thunderbolts along ! It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven Has made like yours, the glorious task is given— Oh! but for such, Columbia’s days were done; Rank without ripeness, quicken’d without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall before her spring was o’er! — re [Rene Choe ey Cee Ree cbs Sanerse sy sn a i piietinedtlndh abd eel onan ono t tT lath Believe me, Spencer, while I wing’d the hours Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few, So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, Ana rested there, as in a dream of home! And looks I met, like looks I loved before, And voices too, which as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own ! Oh! we had nights of that communion free, That flush of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind, Of whims that taught and follies that refined ! Pee eee ee SSS ntaned Sensors eet nahomne. Site ategelMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When shall we both renew them? when, restored To the pure feast al intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? Even now, as, wandering upon Erie’s shore, I hear Niagara’s distant cataract roar, I sigh for England—oh! these weary feet Haye many a mile to journey, ere we meet! BALLAD STANZAS. I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, “If there’s peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here!” It was noon, and on flowers that languish’d around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And “ Here in this lone little wood,” I exclaim’d, ‘With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh’d upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh’d on by any but mine le A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST LAWRENCE, Farntxy as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St Ann’s our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, he rapids are near, and the day-light’s past ! Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl! ey ber et)ary teed om scsi we, rsa rok kere eee easter eae hceibisdebihdudiieptanntinasdslh ck, a hdeeh, aendhan taken nneloed ro tot es Papen te nna bepatatn hee eee eee pe Ete: everet eas 2 MOORE'S POEMS. But when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! Utawas tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Ob! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON., FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST LAWRENCE, Not many months have now been dream’d away Since yonder sun (beneath whose evening ray We rest our boat among these Indian isles) Saw me, where mazy Trent serenely smiles Through many an oak, as sacred as the groves Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the soul of father, or of chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf ! There listening, Lady ! while thy lip hath sung My own unpolish’d lays, how proud I’ve hung On every mellow’d number! proud to feel That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o’er thy hallowing lip-they sigh’d along, Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Oh! I have wonder’d, like the peasant boy Who sings at eve his Sabbath strains of joy, And when he hears the rude, luxuriant note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit’s tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own ! I dream’d not then that, ere the rolling year Had fill’d its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurl’d In one vast volume down Niagara’s steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o’er Ontario’s bed !— Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tideie Labscaed) ba al Soman ee Peery ett Eiroenne nts, pdt le bette ee Serr Pi ee Raster 8 hres eit Pray L gms Ce Ltee eer be prestsdderbeerst } i : i } : C : A ; + ‘7 i 4 : H i : ; i + Not many months have now been dream’d away Since youder sun (beneath whose evening ray We rest our boat amon2 these Indian isles.) aoe Page 270 ete ke pe oat ‘ saree ee Th erentGe eet te ee ee teres ee eee rey eee et eer rary " a eres eet eee rina ae oa: seesaseeseIe st oeaea ‘ —— berth eatin Rariats et “Tie Padres to nicer pach ein soe peo ats ees ns we . 0% aapee tones sean: Shehedheecicetnih aetna el a co Nat foi dal aeede-prmeg " nereetnas io ee inden, 2* MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam’s cheering ray, Then, aloft through freezing air, With the snow-bird soft and fair As the fleece that Heaven flings O’er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray, Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant’s starting tears ! There, amid the island-sedge, Just upon the cataract’s edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day, While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Freather'd round with falling snow, And an arch of glory springs, Brilliant as the chain of rings Round the neck of virgins hung, Virgins, who have wander’d young O’er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest!” Thus have I charm’d, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away ; And now, fresh daylight o’er the water beams! Once more embark’d upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, Shooting the falls without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,” While on its deck a pilot angel stood, And with his wings of living light unfuild, Coasted the dim shores of another world ! Yet oh! believe me, in this blooming maze Of lovely nature, where the fancy strays From charm to charm, where every floweret’s hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new ! J never feel a bliss so pure and still, So heavenly calm, as when a stream or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remember’d well, Or breeze or echo or some wild-flower’s smell (For who can say what small and fairy ties, The memory flings o’er pleasure, as it flies !) * Dante, Purgator., cant. ii. 2 3 Tot ee Ree nee radotetiedth‘ese MOORS POEMS. Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream I once indulged by Trent’s inspiring stream ; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington’s green lawns and breezy heights ! Whether I trace the tranquil moments o’er When I have seen thee cull the }looms of lore, With him, the polish’d warrior, by thy side, A sister’s idol and a nation’s pride! When thou hast read of heroes trophied high In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turning to the living hero while it read, For pure and brightening comments on the dead ! Or whether memory to my mind recalls The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warm’d the cup that luxury pour’d; When the bright future Star of England’s Throne With magic smile hath o’er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Glorious but mild, all softness yet all fire !— Whatever hue my recollections take, Even the regret, the very pain they wake Is dear and exquisite !—but oh! no more— Lady ! adieu:—my heart has linger’d o’er These vanish’d times, till all that round me lies, Streams, banks, and bowers, have faded on my eyes ! Sees : ied deh alchehpathdbeden 2 te seo ae, ett ne eye eames tr _ fit ee ee shige dibieiiedaaasiiaiadicahnmtaateed ade Dente em IMPROMPTU, AFTER A VISIT TO MRS , OF MONTREAL. “Twas but for a moment—and yet in that time She crowded th’ impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow like the sun of her clime, Which waked every feeling at once into flower! Oh! could we have spent but one rapturous day To renew such impressions again and again, The things we should look and imagine and say Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then! What we had not the leisure or language to speak, We should find some ethereal mode of revealing, And between us should feel just as much in a week 4s others would take a millennium in feeling | 52-6 snare Peeeheeeeedt oe " . een tae : erase ae betaine See ee —_ rc Le Oke nos 4 be ba ire “ae mmMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 275 WRITTEN ON PASSING DEAD-MAN’S ISLAND.* IN THE GULF OF ST LAWRENCE, LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPT. 1804, SEE you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark? Her sails are full, though the wind is still, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill! Oh! what doth that vessel of darkness bear ? The silent calm of the grave is there, Save now and again a death-knell rung, And the flap of ‘the sails, with night- fog hung! There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore Of cold and pitiless Labrador ; Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Full many a mariners bones are tost ! Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, And the dim blue fire that lights her deck Doth play on as pale and livid a crew As ever yet drank the church-yard dew! To Dead-Man’s Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Dead-Man’s Isle, she ceeds her fast ; By skeleton shapes her sails are furl’d, And the hand that steers is not of this world! Oh! hurry thee on—oh! hurry thee on, Thou terrible bark! ere the night be gone, Nor let morning look on so foul a sight As would blanch for ever her rosy light ! TO THE BOSTON FRIGATH, COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN J. E, DOUGLAS, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1804. Wit triumph, this morning, O Boston! I hail The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, For they tell me I’soon shall be wafted, in thee, To the flourishing isle of the hrave and the free, * This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the pro- perty of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who call this ghost ship, I think, “‘ The Flying Dutchman.”cot eel ee eee te ea. Spchp aedete- ton aeehhienemeseatetol onekek-mmenbetes reread paagetig re-ettips Lre-aneaa ivintuesnipanttlots Ce ce Se Sener eae ear ar ee ties pay Sa > ie abans Gactubtrectebeteed ee een asta et nae meena Paint Sei in ae 26 Oe oe be ee seem eee hala tina eo Pe eee ee o> ee * & MOORE'S POEMS, DEAR FANNY “ SHE has beauty, but still you must te your heart cool; She has wit, but you mustn’t be caught so: Thus Reason advises, but Reason’s a fool, And ’tis not the first time I have thought 80 ; Dear Fanny, "Tis not the first time I have thought so. “ She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; Tis the charm of youth’s vanishing season : Thus Love has advised me, and who “will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason ? Dear Fanny, Love reasons much better than Reason, FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM, From life without freedom, oh, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark! hark! ’tis the tr umpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the slave. Our country lies pleeding—oh, fly to her aid ; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade, In death’s kindly bosom our last hope remains— The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains, On, on to the combat; the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if freedom from this world be driven, Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven, HERE’S THE BOWER. HErxzE ’s the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted : Here ’s the harp she used to touch— Oh, how that touch enchanted |!MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Roses now unheeded sigh; Where’s the hand to wreathe them ? Songs around neglected lie; Where’s the lip to breathe them? Here’s the bower, &c. Spring may bloom, but she we loved Ne’er shall feel its sweetness ; Time, that once so fleetly moved, Now hath lost its fleetness. Years were days when here she stray’d, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne’er form’d a brighter maid, Nor pity wept a dearer ! Here’s the bower, &c. 1 SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR. A FINLAND LOVE SONG. I saw the moon rise clear O’er hills and vales of snow, Nor told my fleet rein-deer The track I wish’d to go. But quick he bounded forth ; Tor well my rein-deer knew I’ve but one path on earth— That path which leads to you. The gloom that winter cast How soon the heart forgets, When summer brings, at last, Her sun that never sets! So dawn’d my love for you; And chasing every pain, Than summer sun more true, Twill never set again. LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL. - Youna Love found a Dial once in a dark shade, Where man ne’er had wander’d nor sun-beam play’d ; ‘Why thus in darkness lie,” whisper'd young Love; “Thou whose gay hours in sunshine should move?” See as Sead Diet eSeopa Oe etn te kee ee eee . ptiiiihaccinaate ti tee pores ns a pap ty ty ea om a eS ranee- inch adiber rene ennos soohcmgoeehetea tobe. what ee ee Pecteedinaienistesiamn opera a ee Nee oe enade ts - oe eran eet Si 2m ao Leena tags Me re 2 oe ee MOORE'S POEMS. “T ne’er,”’ said the Dial, “have seen the warm sun, So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one.” Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, And placed her where heaven’s beam warmly play’d. There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, While all mark’d with sunshine, her hours flew by. “Oh, how,” said the Dial, “can any fair maid, That’s born to be shone upon, rest in the shade?” But night now comes on, and the sunbeam’s o’er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Then cold and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but number’d a few sunny hours, And left the remainder to darkness and showers ! LOVE AND TIME. *T'1s said—but whether true or not Let bards declare who’ve seen ’em— That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between ’em. In courtship’s first delicious hour, The boy full well can spare ’em; So, loitering in his lady’s bower, He lets the grey-beard wear ’em. Then is Time’s hour of play; Oh, how he flies away ! But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow; If Time to-day has had its flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t’other takes to flying. Then is Love’s hour to stray ; Oh, how he flies away ! But there ’s a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better, So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs ’em,MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 281 That Love with her ne’er thinks of wings, And Time for ever wears ’em. This is Time’s holiday ; Oh, how he flies away! LOVE’S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD. Patn and sorrow shall vanish before us— Youth may wither, but feeling will last: All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er us, Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Oh, if to love thee more Each hour I number o’er— If this a passion be Worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er thee, Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal ; Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. Oh, if there be a charm In love, to banish harm— If pleasure’s truest spell Be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : All the shadow that e’er shall fall o’er thee, Love’s light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. LOVE, WANDERING THROUGH THE GOLDEN MAZE, Lover, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved’s hair, Traced every lock with fond delays, And, doting, linger’d there. And soon he found ’twere vain to fly ; His heart was close confined, And every curlet was a tie— A chain by beauty twined.re eee ean eee “a shckilinaehndieiahaaiiid Ande. MOORE’S POEMS. MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH. THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY, MERRILY every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of freedom soundeth, Merrily, oh! There the warrior’s arms Shed more splendour ; There the maiden’s charms Shine more tender ; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh! merrily, oh! Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh ! There the warrior’s dart Hath no fleetness ; There the maiden’s heart Hath no sweetness— Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh! wearily, oh ! Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountains sally, Cheerily, oh! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath, Sigh’d in slavery, round the flag of freedom rally, Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh ! REMEMBER THE TIME, THE CASTILIAN MAID. Ou, remember the time, in La Mancha’s shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you call’d me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blush’d to be called so by you;MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille, And to dance to the light castanet ; Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget. They tell me, you lovers from Erin’s green isle Every hour a new passion can feel, And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile, You ’ll forget the poor maid of Castile. But they know not how brave in the battle you are, Or they never could think you would rove; For ’tis always the spirit most gallant in war That is fondest and truest in love. OH, SOON RETURN, Tue white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seem’d to burn, When all my weeping love could say Was, ‘‘ Oh, soon return !” Through many a clime our ship was driven, O’er many a billow rudely thrown; Now chill’d beneath a northern heaven, Now sunn’d by summer’s zone: Yet still, where’er our course we lay, When evening bid the west wave burn, I thought I heard her faintly say, “Oh, soon return !” If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turn’d from thee, Twas when the combat raged around, And brave men look’d to me. But though ’mid battle’s wild alarm Love’s gentle power might not appear, He gave to glory’s brow the charm Which made even danger dear. And then, when victory’s calm came o’er The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, I heard that farewell voice once more, “ Oh, soon return !” , LOVE THEE. Ou, yes !—so well, so tenderly Thou ’rt loved, adored by me,eM teat rns ee Mra terete tt eet et ae eee et rots prerpe trots ener at Pere ee ate ee Sena heirs po Sane maar tr Neneh er Lockvateete te ee eerre * eer ar heme te ae ene MOORE'S POEMS, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Were worthless without thee. Though brimm’d with blessings pure and rare, Life’s cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there, I’d spurn the draught away. Love thee ?— ane enna Ib ny aes beg-aipe ehahipegranet end Polis et * otras - Pieinatiiaaaaeens Ray tm Sete cao oa 5 ibs. Aetna biotite ‘fer * Ft. MOORES POEMS. No, cull thy fancies from above, Themes of heaven and themes of love. Let Bacchus, Jove’s ambrosial boy, Distil the grape in drops of joy. ODE VI. repos WAeKov mot éupov. (The 59th in Barnes.) As late I sought the spangled bowers, To cull a wreath of matin flowers, Where many an early rose was weeping, I found the urchin Cupid sleeping ; I caught the boy—a goblet’s tide Was richly mantling by my side, I caught him by his downy wing, And whelm’d him in the racy spring. Oh! then I drank the poison’d bow], And Love now nestles in my soul! Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid’s nest, I feel him fluttering in my breast. ODE VII. Acyouoly ab yvvatKkes. (The 11th in Barnes.) Tun women tell me every day That all my bloom has pass’d away. “ Behold,” the pretty creatures cry, “Behold this mirror with a sigh ! The locks upon thy brow are few, And, like the rest, they ’re withering too | Whether decline has thinn’d my hair, 1’m sure I neither know nor care! But this I know, and this I feel, Ags onward to the tomb I steal, That still as death approaches nearer, The joys of life are sweeter, dearer And had I but an hour to live, That little hour to bliss I’d give !THE ODES OF ANACREON. ODE VIII. Ov poe peres ta Tuyo. (The 15th in Barnes.) I caRE not for the idle state Of Persia’s king, the rich, the great ! I envy not the monarch’s throne, Nor wish the treasured gold my own. But oh! be mine the rosy braid, The fervour of my brows to shade; Be mine the odours, richly sighing, Amidst my hoary tresses flying. To-day Ill haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne’er should shine; But if to-morrow comes, why then— T’ll haste to quaff my wine again. And thus while all our days are bright, Nor time has dimm’d their bloomy light, Let us the festal hours beguile With mantling cup and cordial smile; And shed from every bowl of wine The richest drop on Bacchus’ shrine ! For Death may come, with brow unpleasant, May come when least we wish him present, And beckon to the sable shore, And grimly bid us—drink no more ! ODE Ix. Ages ue Tous Geovs cot. (The 31st in Barnes.) I pray thee, by the gods above, Give me the mighty bowl I love, And let me sing, in wild delight, “ T will—I will be mad to-night! ” Alcemzeon once, as legends tell, Was frenzied by the fiends of hell; Orestes too, with naked tread, Frantic paced the mountain-head ; And why? a murder’d mother’s shade Before their conscious fancy play’d. aL ell) Lie STROM QraD ET erro eee Cert Tt et ere! peed edhe be ro bad Ce ee ‘dbeaehdetd biked WLLL tt Tae nibs t ptibphitelsebacaniie eet cone reser te wre Cae bala Smette ed > aha aero. etme dy tee a eee Se ey rag ee ne S etebatadedhddeciaeiademabieiiae theta cin tice eel = A tease Ce ee ot Ba ere ny em ne) Seen EFeceher tie dnametsderented Serre toa ie a ali . mentee peed anaes ideale! edad a Ca eee t : a , , _ wes be " aad oe LcdommahegMilcadndeatinaikedelne Dear Or eres ear tne tr etree acer t ee rr 306 MOORE'S POEMS, But I can ne’er a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed by me; Yet can I rave in wild delight, “ J will--I will be mad to-night.” The son of Jove, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandish’d, with a maniac joy, The quiver-of th’ expiring boy ; And Ajax, with tremendous shiel\l, Infuriate scour’d the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no quiver hold, No weapon but this flask of gold; The trophy of whose frantic hours Ts but a scatter’d wreath of flowers 5 Yet yet can sing with wild delight, “ J will—I will be mad to-night !” ODE X. T. cou Ocdets Trolno@. (The 12th in Barnes.) TELL me how to punish thee For the mischief done to me! Silly swallow ! prating thing, Shall I clip that wheeling wing ! Or, as Tereus did of old, (So the fabled tale is told,) Shall I tear that tongue away, Tongue that utter’d such a lay? How unthinking hast thou been |} Long before the dawn was seen, When I slumber’d in a dream, Love was the delicious theme ! Just when I was nearly blest, Ah! thy matin broke my rest! —————— ODE XI. Epwta Knpwvov Ths. (The 10th in Barnes.) “ Trt me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay theethe ee Soa oe eet reer or er THE ODES OF ANACREON, For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?” Thus I said the other day, To a youth who pass’'d my way; “Sir,” (he answer’d, and the while Answer’d all in Doric style,) “ Take it, for a trifle take it; Think not yet that I could make it; Pray, believe it was not I; No—it cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods who murder sleep !” “ Here, then, here,” (I said with joy,) *« Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Tdol of my pious breast! ”” Little Love ! thou now art mine, Warm me with that torch of thine. ODE XII. ‘Or pev Karynv KuByByv. (The 13th in Barnes.) Tuy tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove: Cybele’s name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound} Oft too by Claro’s hallow’d spring, The votaries of the laurell’d king Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, And rave in wild prophetic dream ; But frenzied dreams are not for me, Great Bacchus is my deity ! Full of mirth, and full of him, While waves of perfume round me swim, While flavour’d bowls are full supplied, And you sit blushing by my side, I will be mad and raving too— Mad, my girl, with love for you ! EIST FLOS res es OE ETene ee ictal nalisladicdnda aad ini pe eee ee ete = pageninthndh nbhenirienatinationdhi ced ee ee ee / Rosorceersrars Sreetes ars Pocket ete ee =s Ma Recta ee nena nears as pease ates ee esate 6 eee ees re Peer so a Leth aa Pee ere - Sa eee pt he 9 7 | i, ¢ ees ee *e ees MOORE'S POEMS. ODE XIII. Ocra, Cero Pirynoat (The 14th in Barnes.) I witt—I will—the conflict ’s past, And I’ll consent to love at last. Cupid has long, with smiling art, Invited me to yield my heart; And I have thought that peace of mind Should not be for a smile resign’d ! And I ’ve repell’d the tender lure, And hoped my heart should sleep secure, But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver’s golden frame, He took hig bow, his shafts of flame, And proudly summon’d me to yield, Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do ? I took to arms, undaunted too; Assumed the corselet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear, Then (hear it, all you powers above ! ) I fought with Love! I fought with Love! And now his arrows all were shed— And I had just in terrors fled— When, heaving an indignant sigh, To see me thus unwounded fly, And having now no other dart, He glanced himself into my heart! My heart—alas the luckless day ! Received the god, and died away. Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield ! Thy lord at length is forced to yield. Vain, vain, is every outward care, My foe’s within, and triumphs there. ODE XIV. Epacpuin redeva. (The 9th in Barnes.) TELL me why, my sweetest dove, ®hus your humid pinions move,ee ot ee ee THE ODES OF ANACREON, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers ? Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove. Curious stranger! I belong To the bard of Teian song; With his mandate now I fly To the nymph of azure eye; Ah! that eye has madden’d many, But the poet more than any! Venus, for a hymn of love Warbled in her votive grove (‘Twas in sooth a gentle lay) Gave me to the bard away. See me now his faithful minion; Thus with softly-gliding pinion To his lovely girl I bear Songs of passion through the air. Oft he blandly whispers me, “Soon, my bird, I’ll set you free.” But in vain he’ll bid me fly, I shall serve him till I die. Never could my plumes sustain Ruffling winds and chilling rain, O’er the plains or in the dell, On the mountain’s savage swell; Seeking in the desert wood Gloomy shelter, rustic food. Now I lead a life of ease Far from such retreats as these ; From Anacreon’s hand I eat Food delicious, viands sweet ; Flutter o’er his goblet’s brim, Sip the foamy wine with him. Then I dance and wanton round To the lyre’s beguiling sound ! Or with gently-fanning wings Shade the minstrel while he sings: On his harp then sink in slumbers Dreaming still of dulcet numbers ! This is all—away—away— You have made me waste the day. How I’ve chatter’d ! prating crow Never yet did chatter so. ty 4 att shaetes. eetheeeesos eh, Se ) Cet core re heed tne series Cee eee rer pethtet eratesTREE See ene a Kbit banealinadeee ts 2 ie eS . " Tete eee peers acre ters mee Arse aa aew re nd net Pooktea ogee Peat ae renrashepsshebtineod ness ae MOORE'S POEMS. ODE XV. Arye, Swypapwv apiote. (The 28th in Barnes.) T'Hov, whose soft and rosy hues Mimic form and soul infuse; Best of painters! come, portray The lovely maid that’s far away. Far away, my soul, thou art, But I’ve thy beauties all by heart. Paint her jetty ringlets straying, Silky twine in tendrils playing; And, if painting hath the skill To make the spicy balm distil, Let every little lock exhale A sigh of perfume on the gale, Where her tresses’ curly flow Darkles o’er the brow of snow, Let her forehead beam to light, Burnish’d as the ivory bright. Let her eyebrows sweetly rise In jetty arches o’er her eyes, Gently in a crescent gliding, Just commingling, just dividing. But hast thou any sparkles warm The lightning of her eyes to form ? Let them effuse the azure ray With which Minerya’s glances play, And give them all that liquid fire That Venus’ languid eyes respire. O’er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and mellow’d red ; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. Then her lip, so rich in blisses ! Sweet petitioner for kisses ! Then beneath her velvet chin, Whose dimple shades a love within, A charm may peep, a hue may beam And leave the rest to fancy’s dream. Hnough—’tis she; ’tis all I seek; It glows, it,lives, it soon will speak !2 SSS SS Sie eS PORES RTS Ag Se SLES TAS THE ODES OF ANACREON. ODE XVI. Fade por Baduddov otto. (The 29th in Barnes.) AND now with all thy pencil’s truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth ! Let his hair, in lapses bright, Fall like streaming rays of light ; And there the raven’s die confuse With the yellow sunbeam’s hues. Let not the braid, with artful twine, The flowing of his locks confine ; But loosen every golden ring, To float upon the breeze’s wing. Beneath the front of polish’d glow, Front as fair ag mountain snow, And guileless as the dews of dawn, Let the majestic brows be drawn Of ebon dyes enrich’d by gold, Such as the scaly snakes unfold. Mingle in his jetty glances Power that awes and love that trances; Steal from Venus bland desire, Steal from Mars the look of fire, Blend them in such expression here, That we by turns may hope and fear! Now from the sunny apple seek The velvet down that spreads his cheek ; And there let Beauty’s rosy ray In flying blushes richly play ; Blushes of that celestial flame Which lights the cheek of virgin shame, Then for his lips, that ripely gem— But let thy mind imagine them! Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses, Persuasion sleeping upon roses ; And give his lip that speaking air, As if a word was hovering there ! His neck of ivory splendour trace, Moulded with soft but manly grace; Fair as the neck of Paphia’s boy, Where Paphia’s arms have hung in joy. Give him the winged Hermes’ hand, With which he waves his snaky wand; Let Bacchus then the breast supply, And Leda’s son the sinewy thigh.ete oy oye 8. Satie tateeelllin ih tain dees eedliindahe RE ch G8 ORR ERE WE Be as Seat eee ae eee ee Te ee iyrtchegtin shied deadeetens ngrepeeear tek coke ei ; ee ae ee ae oe ennai ~ ores fe ga Like ab dram ante ea tet eet es : - etry ee ES £2 32 Sa | MOORE'S POEMS. Thy pencil, though divinely bright, Is envious of the eye’s delight, - Or its enamour’d touch would show His shoulder fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Removed from all but fancy’s eyes. Now for his feet—but hold !—forbear !-— I see a godlike portrait there ; So like Bathyllus !—sure there’s none So like Bathyllus but the sun ! Oh! let this pictured god be mine, And keep the boy for Samos’ shrine ; Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then the deity ! ODE XVII. Aote jot, Sore yuvaixes. (The 21st in Barnes.) Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, Bring me wine in brimming urns, Cool my lip, it burns, it burns ! Sunn’d by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire ! Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o’er my brow in showers, Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow; Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears, and withers there. But for you, my burning mind! Oh! what shelter shall I find? Can the bowl, or floweret’s dew, Cool the flame that scorches you ? ODE XVIII. Ilapa tnv cximv Babvrrov. (Lhe 22d in Barnes.) HERE recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this imbowering shade;THE ODES OF ANACREON. Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze! Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling bland the mind to sleep; Hark! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul ! Tell me, tell me, is not this All a stilly scene of bliss ? Who, my girl, would pass it by ? Surely neither you nor I! ODE XIX. At Movoa tov Epwra. (The 30th in Barnes.) OnE day the Muses twined the hands Of baby Love with flowery bands, And to celestial Beauty gave i The captive infant as her slave. | eee His mother comes with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy; His mother sues, but all in vain, He ne’er will leave his chains again. Nay, should they take his chains away, The little captive still would stay ; “Tf this,” he cries, “a bondage be, Who could wish for liberty?” ODE XX. ‘H ye pedrawa Tivet. (The 19th in Barnes.) OBSERVE when mother earth is dry, She drinks the droppings of the sky ; And then the dewy cordial gives To every thirsty plant that lives. The vapours which at evening weep Are beverage to the swelling deep ; And when the rosy sun appears, He drinks the ocean’s misty tears. The moon, too, quaffs her paly stream Qf lustre from the solar beam._— ba a4 , ftie Picci dy CEE 84 bE Ee Pe Be TE PeES ese 6 £5 et be es | SSUES CW a RA ee 5 eee ete MOORE’S POEMS. Then, hence with all your soper thinking { | Since nature’s holy law is drinking, I’ll make the laws of nature mine, And pledge the universe in wine ! ODE XXI. ‘H Tatanov tor ecrn. (The 20th in Barnes.) Tur Phrygian rock that braves the storm Was once a weeping matron’s form ; And Progna, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade, Oh that a mirror’s form were mine, To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee! I wish I were the zone that lies Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs! Or like those envious pearls that show So faintly round that neck of snow, Yes, I would be a happy gem, Like them to hang, to fade like them. What more would thy Anacreon be ? Oh, anything that touches thee, Nay, sandals for those airy feet— Thus to be press’d by thee were sweet |! me Leathateand — SoC ee ee bnetinepnetedmnmnd Re nae es eee ene ae tnare ODE XX Ocrw eye Atpedas. (The 1st in Barnes.) I OFTEN wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul’s desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime To men of fame in former time. But when the soaring theme I try, Along the chords my numbers die, And whisper, with dissolving tone, “ Qur sighs are given to love alone?) ~’ ee a i ee en , OF ee Whe nn a ee a eet = Shea teen 1 bitten hee ee nae idee ee eae tees €:THE ODES OF ANACREON. Indignant at the feeble lay, I tore the panting chords away, Attuned them to a nobler swell, And struck again the breathing shell; In all the glow of epic fire, To Hercules I wake the lyre! But still its fainting sighs repeat, “The tale of love alone is sweet!” ’ Then fare thee well, seductive dream, That madest me follow Glory’s theme ; For thou my lyre, and thou my heart, Shall never more in spirit part ; And thou the flame shalt feel as well As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell! ODE ori Duos KepaTa Tavposs. (The 2d in Barnes.) To all that breathe the airs of heaven, Some boon of strength has nature given. When the majestic bull was born, She fenced his brow with wreathed horn; She arm’d the courser’s foot of air, And wing’d with speed the panting hare; She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean’s crystal mirror, Taught the unnumber’d scaly throng To trace their liquid path along; While for the umbrage of the grove, She plumed the warbling world of love. To man she gave the flame refined, The spark of heaven—a thinking mind! And had she no surpassing treasure For thee, O woman! child of pleasure ? She gave thee beauty—shaft of eyes, That every shaft of war outflies ! She gave thee beauty—blush of fire, That bids the flames of war retire! Woman! be fair, we must adore thee! Smile, and a world is weak before thee !harudedbeendaeslbAnnpaehimtbarah nak ouaadeonams aire er ee arenes Ried seas Bese sree tees rarette tet stem tect trts trent retire ete TT Prenatal Dene " . eaereg ee en poe se “rt , soe 8 e488 MOORES POEMS. ODE XXIV. Ev pev dry xerdov. (The 33d in Barnes.) ONCE in each revolving year, Gentle bird! we find thee here. When nature wears her summer vest, Thou comest to weave thy simple nest; But when the chilling winter lowers, Again thou seekst the genial bowers Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, Where sunny hours of verdure smile. And thus thy wing of freedom roves, Alas! unlike the plumed loves That linger in this hapless breast, And never, never change their nest ! Still every year, and all the year, A flight of loves engender here; And some their infant plumage try, And on a tender winglet fly ; While in the shell, ampregn’d with fires, Cluster a thousand more desires; Some from their tiny prisons peeping, And some in formless embryo sleeping. My bosom, like the vernal groves, Resounds with little warbling loves ; One urchin imps the other’s feather, Then twin desires they wing together. But is there then no kindly art, To chase these Cupids from my heart? No, no! I fear, alas! I fear They will for ever nestle here ! ODE XXV. Ev pev reyes ta OnBys. (The 16th in Barnes.) Tuy harp may sing of Troy’s alarms, Or tell the tale of Theban arms; With other wars my song shall burn, For other wounds my harp shall mourn. "T'was not the crested warrior’s dart Which drank the current of my heart: aeons eel tia 5 Site Meee . . er ae we!THE ODES OF ANACREON. Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish’d bosom bleed; No—from an eye of liquid blue A host of quiver’d Cupids flew ; And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath this army of the eyes ! ODE XXXVI. Ex wryvows prev (rot. (The 55th in Barnes.) WE read the flying courser’s name Upon his side in marks of flame ; And by their turban’d brows alone The warriors of the East are known. But in the lover’s glowing eyes The inlet to his bosom lies; Through them we sce the small faint mark Where Love has dropp’d his burning spark ! ODE XXVII. O avnp o tns Ku@npns. (The 45th in Barnes.) As in the Lemnian caves of fire The mate of her who nursed Desire Moulded the glowing steel to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm ; While Venus every barb imbues With droppings of her honey’d dews ; And Love (alas the victim-heart !) Tinges with gall the burning dart ; Once to this Lemnian cave of flame The crested lord of battles came; ’T was from the ranks of war he rush’d, His spear with many a life-drop blush’d! He saw the mystic darts, and smiled Derision on the archer-child. * And. dost thou smile?” said little Love; “Take this dart, and thou mayst proveSnemalinbaode lennon en ate tee eee eee ets ar eae eer ae ee ae clean tt oe ee rae vt lechestheedee tet cte oo penchakibonhe a err nk mnnotee ears pn ome Sy ren > e+ @ 2 & MOORE’S POEMS, That though they pass the breezes’ flight, My bolts are not so feathery light.” He took the shaft—and oh! thy look, Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took, He sigh’d and felt the urchin’s art ; He sigh’d in agony of heart, “Tt is not light—I die with pain! Take—take thy arrow back again.” “No,” said the child, “it must not be; That little dart was made for thee!” ODE XXVIII. XanreTrov To me Piryoat, (The 46th in Barnes.) Yxrs—loving is a painful thrill, And not to love more painful still; But surely ’tis the worst of pain To love and not be loved again ! Affection now has fled from earth, Nor fire of genius, light of birth, Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile From beauty’s cheek one favouring smile; Gold is the woman’s only theme, : Gold is the woman’s only dream. Oh! never be that wretch forgiven— Forgive him not, indignant Heaven ! Whose grovelling eyes could first adore, Whose heart could pant for sordid ore. Since that devoted thirst began Man has forgot to feel for man; The pulse of social life is dead, And all its fonder feelings fled ! War too has sullied nature’s charms, For gold provokes the world to arms } And oh! the worst of all is art, I feel it breaks the lover’s heart |THE ODES OF ANACREON, ODE XXIx. Eéoxouv ovap tpoyaterv. (The 44th in Barnes.) “Twas in an airy dream of night, I fancied that I wing’d my flight On pinions fleeter than the wind, While little Love, whose feet were twined (I know not why) with chains of lead, Pursued me as I trembling fled; Pursued and—could I e’er have thought ?— Swift as the moment I was caught ! What does the wanton fancy mean By such a strange, illusive scene; I fear she whispers to my breast, That you, my girl, have stolen my rest ; That though my fancy for a while Has hung on many a woman’s smile, T soon dissolved the passing vow, And ne’er was caught by love till now: ODE XXX. ‘Yaxwhiwn pe passe. (The 7th in Barnes.) ARw’D with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race. O’er the wild torrent, rude and deep, By tangled brake and pendent steep, With weary foot I panting flew, My brow was chill with drops of dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying, To my lip was faintly flying ; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hover’d o’er my head, And fanning light his breezy plume, Recall’d me from my languid gloom ; Then said, in accents half-reproving, “ Why hast thou been a foe to loving?”ree ee snes er nen bemneite i anbadee DS eemathaae nein tr curren Sp atmimcacnern ss septa endtiticeanl 3 - erin gah a tere ra ont nee vane mete norte wear ete MOORE'S POEMS. ODE XXXI. Ert pupowars Tepivass, (The 4th in Barnes.) STREW me a breathing bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves ; And while in luxury’s dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink ! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet-boy ; Folding his little golden vest, With cinctures, round his snowy breast, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide! Swift as the wheels that kindling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal; A scanty dust, to feed the wind, Ts all the trace ’twill leave behind. Why do we shed the rose’s bloom Upon the cold insensate tomb ? Can flowery breeze, or odour’s breath, Affect the slumbering chill of death ? No, no; I ask no balm to steep With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing ; Now let the rose, with blush of fire, Upon my brow its scent expire. ODE XxX: Mecovuxkttotws tor @pats. (The 3d in Barnes.) ‘Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll ; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away ; An infant, at that dreary hour, Caine weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To save him from the midnight air !THE ODES OF ANACREON. * And who art thou,” I waking cry, “That bidst my blissful visions fly ?”’ “O gentle sir!” the infant said, “in pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit : a lonely child I wander o’er the gloomy wild; Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way! ” I hear the baby’s tale of woe; I hear the bitter night-winds blow ; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimm’d my lamp and oped the gate. "Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, His pinion sparkled through the night ! I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart ! I take him in, and fondly raise The dying embers’ cheering blaze ; Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold. And now the embers’ genial ray Had warm’d his anxious fears away ; “T pray thee,” said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) “I pray thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I’ve wander’d so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injured its elastic power.” The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame, And to my very soul it came! “ Fare thee well!” I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing’d away ; “Fare thee well! for now I know The rain has not relax’d my bow; Tt still can send a maddening dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart !* go FERS ESSay BEG ESs PRCA THUS CAEL LE CTE UP ee © e BS ae FT £578 5 225 as 2 oe 3 8S 3234 32a Bee ee wt o£ eee eee) 2+ eh ee) smtellliaall oe FY ee 43? rs 7 Psccacs ih bebe mats 4 ' : ee reer elas pie ae wee toh nb ter teeta aarettcaek tert: aa oo ee nt: rater ee Neer ete aati a heer ae ere! ore ee Se erat Te ee Sema serin tenant eae nee SSR TIES ae area eeIae aw earned MOORE'S POEMS. ODE XXXII. Maxapifopev oe terrié. (The 43d wr Barnes.) O THOU, of all creation blest, Sweet insect! that delight’st to rest Upon the wild wood’s leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may envy thee ! Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate’er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor yet art thou the peasant’s fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear ; For thou art mild as matin dew, And still, when summer’s flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain ; Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes and thee revere ! The Muses love thy shrilly tone; Apollo calls thee all his own; ’T was he who gave that voice to thee, "Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy. Unworn by age’s dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect! child of earth ! In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away ; With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is pass’d by thee, Thou seemst—a little deity ! ODE XXXTY. Epws ror’ ev podotct. (The 40th in Barnes.) CUPID once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary headTHE ODES OF ANACREON, Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee ! The bee awaked—with anger wild The bee awaked—and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries ; To Venus quick he runs, he flies ! “ O mother !—I am wounded through— I die with pain-—in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing— A bee it was—for once I know I heard a rustic call it so.” Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile ; Then said, “ My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild-bee’s touch, How must the heart, ah Cupid! be, The hapless heart that ’s stung by thee ! ODE XXXYV, ‘O mrovTos evye YpucoU. (The 23d in Barnes.) Ir hoarded gold possess’d a power To lengthen life’s too fleeting hour, And purchase from the hand of death A little span, a moment’s breath, How I would love the precious ore ! And every day should swell my store ; That when the Fates would send their minion, To waft me off on shadowy pinion, I might some hours of life obtain, And bribe him back to hell again. But since we ne’er can charm away The mandate of that awful day, Why do we vainly weep at fate, And sigh for life’s uncertain date ? The light of gold can ne’er illume The dreary midnight of the tomb! And why should I then pant for treasures ? Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures ; The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose flowing souls the goblet blends ! tay raped ena tir rrrerg rs eri 2 pe peei bettie percee nied a shurese padatintinahethatindantingihonoaambnin tie ne ong ah ae ts stn Sony ea ae te Be mene eA Been a wearer c Es Hpac ne tee ene eat tess . eee ee Sieneiiumenienheeddestenh need aio a a paris heme he Be ees Se ee Pe Le! Se &. _ MOORE’S POEMS. ODE XXXVI. Ata vuxtov eycabevowr. (The 8th in Barnes.) 'TwAS night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warm’d my swimming soul ; As lull’d in slumber I was laad, Bright visions o’er my fancy play’d! With virgins, blooming as the dawn, I seem’d to trace the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew! Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, Saw me trip the flowery wild With dimpled girls, and slily smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, But, ah! ’twas plain they envied me, ODE XXXVII. dAvapov Trimjev owwor. (The 41st in Barnes.) LET us drain the nectar’d bowl, Let us raise the song of soul, To him, the god who loves so well The nectar’d bowl, the choral swell! Him, who instructs the sons of earth To thrid the tangled dance of mirth; Him, who was nursed with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms Has fondled in her twining arms. From him that dream of transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets to darkle, And brilliant graces learn to sparkle. Behold! my boys a goblet bear, Whose sunny foam bedews the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh ? To the winds they fly, they fly ! Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking !Se tetecee ee ek a Sager . THE ODES OF ANACREON. Oh, can the tears we lend to thought In life’s account avail us aught? Can we discern, with all our lore, The path we ’re yet to journey o’er No, no! the walk of life is dark ; Tis wine alone can strike a spark; Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide ; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odours chafed to fragrant death ; To souls that court the phantom care, Let him retire and shroud him there ; While we exhaust the nectar’d bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectar’d bowl, the choral swell! ODE XXXVIII. Pidw yepovTa TEepTrvov. (The 47th in Barnes.) How I love the festive boy, Tripping wild the dance of joy! How [I love the mellow sage, Smiling through the veil of age! And whene’er this man of years In the dance of joy appears, Age is on his temples hung, But his heart—his heart is young! ODE XXXIX. Een Bpotos etvxOnv. (The 24th in Barnes.) I xnow that Heaven ordains me here, To run this mortal life’s career ; The scenes which I have journey’d o’er, Return no more—alas ! no more; And all the path I’ve yet to go, I neither know nor ask to know,MOORES POEMS, Then surely, Care, thou canst not twine Thy fetters round a soul like mine; No, no! the heart that feels with me Can never be a slave to thee! And oh! before the vital thrill, Which trembles at my heart, is still, I’ll gather Joy’s luxuriant flowers, And gild with bliss my fading hours; Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, And Venus dance me to the tomb ! ODE XL. Tt Kkarov eott BadsGerv. (The 66th in Barnes.) WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the Zephyvr’s languid sighs, As o’er the scented mead he flies ! How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to fall in tears of wine; Where the imbowering branches meet— Oh, is not this divinely sweet? ™ : i t on Likchucheieictaeer See eee ee “thereat ot py Sede ep er a De ee ee er oe ioe oer 2 a cei oe Te sons po-nesser pcre we ODE XLI, TTofem pev Atovucov. (The 42d in Barnes.) Yrs, be the glorious revel mine, Where humour sparkles from the wine ! Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to my beguiling lyre; And while the red cup circles round, Mingle in soul as well as sound! My soul, to festive feeling true, One pang of envy never knew; And little has it learn’d to dread The gall that envy’s tongue can shed, Away ! I hate the slanderous dart Which steals to wound th’ unwary heart ; And oh! I hate with all my soul Discordant clamours o’er the bowl, ay hen ay Cooked re vt ae ee ee ee ae i Cieeeetettateed Reena suse ae a 2 tp mene nin hae ee aoe - i.e oeTHE ODES OF ANACKEON, Where every cordial heart should be Attuned to peace and harmony. Come, let us hear the soul of song Expire the silver harp along ; Thus simply happy, thus at peace, Sure such a life should never cease ! ODE XLII. BTEepavous pev KpoTapoicr. (The 6th in Barnes.) Waite our rosy fillets shed Blushes o’er each fervid head With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassion’d, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings, Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, Through the dance luxuriant swims, Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which as the tripping wauton flies, Shakes its tresses to her sighs! A youth the while, with loosen’d hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings, to the wild harp’s tender tone, A tale of woes, alas! his own; And then what nectar in his sigh, As o’er his lip the murmurs die! Surely never yet has been So divine, so blest a scene! Has Cupid left the starry sphere To wave his golden tresses here? Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The genius of festivity ! ere wrens - aaa ante ntendc Crore)ear" ae eee fete it wes 2a amet sons me ett ert eters athodateal - lida aiaadhenekee SC eee eee cae a See eee tee nantes = cs pn sbe genre sneecncme ihe Sear iheciiadtindsh cud, testes ieee tcl ee Tebes-stheettnchdtdirtere Ga Se dibdan diene me ers i aes PRSterat este, aheeiainiiasl tat Sorte = ea ie ae ts Fets eri st ea aoe MOORE'S POEMS, ODE XLIII. T'o podov To Twy EepwTar. (The 5th in Barnes.) Buns of roses, virgin flowers Cull’d from Cupid’s balmy bo In the bowl of Bacchus steep, wers, Till with crimson drops they weep ! Twine the rose, the garland twine, Every leaf distilling wine; Drink and smile, and learn to think That we were born to smile and drink. Rose! thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower ; Rose! thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild! Iiven the gods who walk the sky Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillet braids, Then bring me showers of ros es, bring, And shed them round me while I sing, ODE XLIV. Orav Two Tov ow OV, (The 25th in Barnes.) Wi1tHIn this goblet rich and deep I cradle all my woes to sleep; Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, Or pour the unavailing tear? For death will never heed the sigh, Nor soften at the tearful eye; And eyes that sparkle, eyes that Must all alike be seal’d in sleep; Then let us never vainly stray, weep, In search of thorns, from pleasure’s way ; Oh! let us quaff the rosy wave Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave} And in the goblet rich and deep Cradle our crying woes to sleep ! fr 8 theme . endtan cee aTHE ODES OF ANACREON. ODE XLyY. Ide, ws éapos pavevtos. (The 37th in Barnes.) SEE the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her spangled wing: While virgin Graces, warm with May, Fling roses o’er her dewy way ! The murmuring billows of the deep Have languish’d into silent sleep ; And mark the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave ; While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away ; And cultured field, and winding stream, Are sweetly tissued by his beam. Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see Nursing into luxury! ODE XLVI. . Ery@ yepav [ev elp. (The 38th in Barnes.) Ts true, my fading years decline, Yet I can quaff the brimming wine As deep as any stripling fair Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear ; And if, amidst the merry crew, I’m eall’d to wind the dance’s clue, Thou shalt behold this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant’s wand, But brandishing a rosy flask, The only thyrsus e’er I’ll asktt enabho dele ee eee eee rest ae meee: Paste iene ee ae ene Teen Er menenns hire porsosseer peer seaees - ee ot ” : P Dieenaroecaseiek eats Soe Seah geet penned eres sane erat emer eeag nes se on Me ee re le te caenahe eamenceeh i" > "$5 £3 Shs MOORL’S POEMS. Let those who pant for Glory’s charms, Embrace her in the field of arms; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl, Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its honey’d wave! For though my fading years decay, And though my bloom has pass’d away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrow’d from my wine, I’ll mingle ’mid the dancing train, And live my follies o’er again ODE XLVII. Otay 6 Baxyos escedOn. (The 26th in Barnes.) WHEN my thirsty soul I steep, Kivery sorrow ’s lull’d to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus’ store, Can I, can I wish for more ? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul dilates with glee, What are kings and crowns to me? If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away ! Arm you, arm you, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight ; Let me, O my budding vine, Spill no other blood than thine, Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me, Oh! I think it sweeter far To fall in banquet than in war !THE ODES OF ANACREON. ODE XLYIII. Tov Avos o wats Baxyos, (The 27th in Barnes.) WueEn Bacchus, Jove’s immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bow], Thaws the winter of our soul ; When to my inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet ! Tis surely something sweet, I think, Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink ! ODE XLIX. 7 Or ey@ Tim Tov oLvoY. (The 39th in Barnes.) Wuen I drink, I feel, I feel, Visions of poetic zeal ! Warm with the goblet’s freshening dews, My heart invokes the heavenly Muse. When I drink, my sorrow’s o’er ; T think of doubts and fears no more; But scatter to the railing wind Each gloomy phantom of the mind ! When I drink, the jesting boy Bacchus himself partakes my joy ; And while we dance through breathing bowers, Whose every gale is rich with flowers, In bowls he makes my senses swim, Till the gale breathes of nought but him ! When I drink, I deftly twine Flowers, begemm’d with tears of wine; And while with festive hand I spread The smiling garland round my head, Something whispers in my breast, How sweet it is to live at rest! When I drink, my heart refines, And rises as the cup declines; Rises in the genial flow That none but social spirits know.2 ta = . . lack tensa de ee ee araceed Coad eer ee eee ee ee ee oe eee eee ee eee e packet Peatee ee Stacie eee eee eS nee ere honpeliguiibibeecberSan oapLolecciden seed nDemad cnet trae Pr ohn eee Sets eee — “ba £5 ES a MOORE'S POEMS, When youthful revellers, round the bow], Dilating, mingle soul with soul ! When I drink, the bliss is mine; There’s bliss in every drop of wine ! All other joys that I have known I’ve scarcely dared to call my own; But this the Fates can ne’er destroy, Till death o’ershadows all my joy! ODE L. My pe pvyns opwoa. (The 34th in Barnes.) Fy not thus my brow of snow, Lovely woman! fly not so. Though the wane of age is mine, Though the brilliant flush is thine, Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee, Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me! See, in yonder flowery braid, Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid, How the rose, of orient glow, Mingles with the lily’s snow; Mark how sweet their tints agree, Just, my girl, like thee and me! at, Tt fe TOUS vopous OidacKels. (The 36th in Barnes.) AWAY, away, you men of rules, What have I to do with schools ? They ’d make me learn, they ’d make me think, But would they make me love and drink? Teach me this; and let me swim My soul upon the goblet’s brim ; Age begins to blanch my brow, I’ve time for nought but pleasure now. Fly and cool my goblet’s glow At yonder fountain’s gelid flow; aTHE ODES OF ANACREON, I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink This soul to slumber as I drink! Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, You’ll deck your master’s grassy grave; And there’s an end—for ah ! you know They drink but little wine below ! ODE LIL. Or eyo vewy optdov. (The 54th in Barnes.) Wuen I behold the festive train Of dancing youth, I’m young again | Memory wakes her magic trance, And wings me lightly through the dance. Come, Cybeba, smiling maid! Cull the flower and twine the braid ; Bid the blush of summer’s rose Burn upon my brow of snows; And let me, while the wild and young Trip the mazy dance along, Fling my heap of years away, And be as wild, as young as they. Hither haste, some cordial soul! Give my lips the brimming bowl; Oh, you will see this hoary sage Forget his locks, forget his age. He still can chant the festive hymn, He still can kiss the goblet’s brim. ODE LIII. O ravpos OUTOS @ Tal. (The 85th in Barnes.) Merurnxs the pictured bull we see Is amorous Jove—it must be he ! How fondly blest he seems to bear That fairest of Phoenician fair! How proud he breasts the foamy tide, And spurns the billowy surge aside !ee ee peas ares ms peer eke ee ra a4 noon ait ieee et tte ote ee ee a ewes gan ee : Pt — on © r anchina denatinded 3 a Rede heed TY pepsihadibar meee tar sas nre ive terre. senor coat soe = Sacussme, a eee MOORE’S POEMS, Could any beast of vulgar vein Undaunted thus defy the main ? No: he descends from climes above, He looks the god, he breathes of Jove; ODE LIV. Atepavnpopov pet Hos. (The 53d in Barnes.) WHILE we invoke the wreathed Spring, vesplendent rose! to thee we'll sing; tesplendent rose, the flower of flowers, Whose breath perfumes Olympus’ bowers; Whose virgin blush, of chasten’d dye, Jinchants so much our mortal eye. When pleasure’s bloomy season glows, The Graces love to twine the rose; The rose his warm Dione’s bliss, And flushes like Dione’s kiss ! Oft has the poet’s magic tongue The rose’s fair luxuriance sung; And long the Muses, heavenly maids, Have rear’d it in their tuneful shades. When, at the early glance of morn, It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, *Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence, To cull the timid floweret thence, And wipe with tender hand away The tear that on its blushes lay ! *Tis sweet to hold the infant stems, Yet dropping with Aurora’s gems, And fresh inhale the spicy sighs That from the weeping buds arise. When revel reigns, when mirth is high, And Bacchus beams in every eye, Our rosy fillets scent exhale, And fill with balm the fainting gale! Oh! there is nought in nature bright, Where roses do not shed their light! When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dies ; The nymphs display the rose’s charms, It mantles o’er their graceful arms; Through Cytherea’s form it glows, And mingles with the living snows.THE ODES OF ANACREON, The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm; Preserves the cold inurned clay, And mocks the vestige of decay. And when at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath Diffuses odour even in death ! Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung? Attend— for thus the tale is sung. When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty’s warmest beam, Venus appear’d, in flushing hues, Mellow’d by ocean’s briny dews; ‘When in the starry courts above The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, The nymph who shakes the martial lance ! Then, then, in strange eventful hour, The earth produced an infant flower, Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest, And wanton’d o’er its parent breast. The gods beheld this brilliant birth, And hail’d the Rose, the boon of earth! With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyed, And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who sheds the teeming vine ; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn, ODE LY. O Tov ev Tovots aTeElp%. (The 50th in Barnes.) He who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer’s dew, And taste, uncloy’d by rich excesses, All the bliss that wine possesses ! He who inspires the youth to glance In winged circlets through the dance} Bacchus, the god again is here, And leads along the blushing year ! The blushing year with rapture teems, Ready to shed those cordial streams, ree eees etpete tots et sonnei Fe aime. Sel ek tee ee oe ee eee ee ey I re nee ene ae haa 27 oe eee sar ene erat aaioortna an rere” 3 MDE eE Sahn Eaonep noe Serausssstraste ese whe ett eee erage gen tara at ees Reset bal tan eed De neeeee pesca hcg heapenemetente’ san ™ ee bree er gr er reer MOORE'S POEMS, Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, Illuminate the sons of earth! And when the ripe and vermil wine, Sweet infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow clusters swells, Oh! when it bursts its rosy cells, The heavenly stream shall mantling flow To balsam every mortal woe ! No youth shall then be wan or weak, For dimpling health shall light the cheek No heart shall then desponding sigh, For wine shall bid despondence fly | Thus—till another autumn’s glow Shall bid another vintage flow ! ——_—_. ODE LVI. Apa ts TOPEUGE TOVTOV. (The 51st in Barnes.) AND whose immortal hand could shed Upon this disk the ocean’s bed 2 And in a frenzied flight of soul Sublime as heaven’s eternal pole, Imagine thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love’s voluptuous form Floating along the silvery sea In beauty’s glorious majesty ! Light as the leaf that summer’s breeze Has wafted o’er the glassy seas, She fluats upon the ocean’s breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest, And stealing on, she gently pillows Her bosom on the dancing billows. Her bosom, like the humid rose, Her neck like dewy-sparkling snows, Mllume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the streams embraces | In languid luxury soft she glides, Encircled by the azure tides, Like some fair lily faint with weeping, Upon a bed of violets sleeping ! Beneath their queen’s inspiring glance The dolphins o’er the green sea dance, While, sparkling on the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp in eddies play, And gleam along the watery way. Ae a ee ATHE ODES OF ANACREON. ODE LVII. O Sparreras wv’ 0 ypucos. (The 65th in Barnes.) WuHeEn gold, as fleet as zephyr’s pinion, Escapes like any faithless minion, And flies me, (as he flies me ever,) Do I pursue him? never, never ! No, let the false deserter go, For who would court his direst foe ? But when I feel my lighten’d mind No more by ties of gold confined, I loosen all my clinging cares And cast them to the vagrant airs. Then, then I feel the Muse’s spell, And wake to life the dulcet shell ; The dulcet shell to beauty sings, And love dissolves along the strings! Thus, when my heart is sweetly taught How little gold deserves a thought, The winged slave returns once more, And with him wafts delicious store Of racy wine, whose balmy art In slumber seals the anxious heart ! Again he tries my soul to sever From love and song, perhaps for ever! Away, deceiver! why pursuing Ceaseless thus my heart’s undoing ? Sweet is the song of loving fire ; Sweet are the sighs that thrill the lyre; Oh! sweeter far than all the gold The waftage of thy wings can hold. I well remember all thy wiles ; They wither’d Cupid’s flowery smiles. And o’er his harp such garbage shed, I thought its angel breath was fled ! They tainted all his bowl of blisses, His bland desires and hallow’d kisses. Oh! fly to haunts of sordid men, But rove not near the bard again! Thy glitter in the Muse’s shade Scares from her bower the tuneful maid 3 And not for worlds would I forego That moment of poetic glow, When my full soul in Fancy’s stream, Pours o’er the lyre its swelling theme.: Rs eaete eee r ‘ : ieee eee ietidittiiemailintaediicens an meet hr peren ee ere oe Rar he spatial aimee oe 3 ee eee Sree. Rene rere at Coa ee tence as aot eee eee er eR ee ee ee ee ee ee ~~ Ltheeeohurameamtedtnenen tee Peetarishhgrsae anageap bert aaeeieeine woken toeet v4 Seren, ae? eee at erage Salleieenaen coisas aoe ee - PS e nantes pr : en he MOORES POEMS. Away, away ! to worldlings henco Who feel not this diviner sense, And with thy gay, fallacious blaze Dazzle their unrefined gaze. ODE LVIII. Tov éeXavoypeta Botpu?. bb XP P (The 52d in Barnes.) SABLED by the solar beam, Now the fiery clusters teem, In osier baskets, borne along By all the festal vintage throng Of rosy youths and virgins fair, Ripe as the melting fruits they bear, Now, now they press the pregnant grapes, And now the captive stream escapes, In fervid tide of nectar gushing, And for its bondage proudly blushing ! While round the vat’s impurpled brim The choral song, the vintage hymn Of rosy youths and virgins fair Steals on the cloy’d and panting air. Mark how they drink, with all their eyex, The orient tide that sparkling flies ; The infant balm of all their fears, The infant Bacchus, born in tears ! When he whose verging years decline As deep into the vale as mine, When he inhales the vintage-spring, His heart is fire, his foot’s a wing; And as he flies, his hoary hair Plays truant with the wanton air | ODE LIX, Ava BapButov Sovace. (The 64th in Barnes.) AWAKE to life, my dulcet shell, To Pheebus all thy sighs shall swell; And though no glorious prize be thine, No Pythian wreath around thee twine, Yet every hour is glory’s hourTHE ODES OF ANACREON., To him who gathers wisdom’s flower! Then wake thee from thy magic slumbers, Breathe to the soft and Phrygian numbers, Which, as my trembling lips repeat, Thy chords shall echo back as sweet. The cygnet thus, with fading notes, As down Cayster's tide he floats, Plays with his snowy plumage fair Upon the wanton murmuring air, Which amorously lingers round, And sighs responsive sound for sound ! Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream, Thy Phoebus is my fancy’s dream; And hallow’d is the harp I bear, And hallow’d is the wreath I wear, Hallow’d by him, the god of lays, Who modulates the choral maze! I sing the love which Daphne twined Around the godhead’s yielding mind ; I sing the blushing Daphne’s flight From this ethereal youth of light; And how the tender, timid maid Flew panting to the kindly shade, Resign’d a form too tempting fair, And grew a verdant laurel there : Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill, In terror seem’d to tremble still! The god pursued, with wing’d desire; And when his hopes were all on fire, He only heard the pensive air Whispering amid her leafy hair! But, O my soul! no more—no more! Enthusiast, whither do I soar? This sweetly-mad’ning dream of soul Has hurried me beyond the goal. Why should I sing the mighty darts Which fly to wound celestial hearts, When sure the lay, with sweeter tone, Can tell the darts that wound my own? Still be Anacreon, still inspire The descant of the Teian lyre: Still let the nectar’d numbers float, Distilling love in every note! And when the youth, whose burning soul Has felt the Paphian star’s control, When he the liquid lays shall hear, His heart will flutter to his ear, And drinking there of song divine, Banquet on intellectual wine !— a q pellicle enh eneaaath she eee nana — gees ee aso es ah atone ere Seer ee eerie et et eee eee ie oes ‘canis anne te rae ewer peer

Tra205 Vero Exsiro, M:duwy rs nor AveiCary* Aue: auroy of 0 sours T k a net e AwaAor Cuveorevaay O Beary ra rye Kudyens Evo, uyys oorove: - eee |AN ODE BY THE TRANSLATOR. O 02 Acuna Togueorss Kea ovv godoio: mAc&as, IDines OTEDOY YEeoovTEs "H Oe bsawy avaccu, TOBIN wor’ ee Oruwrrov Esopus Avaxgcovrc, Eo0zwoau rovg egwrao, *Yromediaoous ers: Lope, 0 we Avanpsorre Toy coQwraroy aruvroy, KaaAcouol of Codioras, Ti, yeeuy, reov Brov wey Tos ewer, TH Avan, K’ ou% eos xoUrEIY COWNES ; Ti piAnwa tus Kudyenc, Ti xumeAAaw rou Avasou, Aust y erpugnoas aowy, Oux emoug vowoug Odacnay, Oux E40) AUK AWTOY; ‘O Os Trios merrorns Myre dvoyeguive, Qyat, "Ori, bec, cov y' aveu tev, °O copuraros amavruy Tlaen% ra copay zarouuas Biden, Tie), AvgiCar, Mere Toy xaAwy Yuvan? AgeAws Os regia Taller, Qs Aven Yue, EOY NTO2 Avamvel (LOVOUS ELWTHS” 6s Brorov yarnugy DIAC [LUALOTH TAaYTOY Ov comes puermdos Efe; TiS CODWTELOS (bev EOTI | ihe htt ot Peper i iatecette til niet. nal op ceed nae Serene een anne einem adem = i bppeae meee enen Pere tee es WOES Mus Siete oar eadione roti meets eangeeton ane re-edit er Papegeescaneee eae Ai dits-aeeesanees od a Bs seen ete ee re er Sree eer te rr Siar anh ee oe: hipguet neice hides ieata minh ingieiah sell oo Pema ie wiies won een ee ee ; : es see re eer i didi actiahdanibtndhinditnede, roae oi ene Paeeinns MOORE'S POEMS. EPIGRAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA, [Amone the Epigrams of the Anthologia, there are some panegyrics on Anacreon, which I had translated, and originally intended as a kind of Coronis to the work; but I found, upon consideration, that they wanted variety ; a frequent recurrence of the same thought, within the limits of an epitaph, to which they are confined, would render a collection of them rather uninteresting. I shall take the liberty, however, of subjoining a few, that I may not appear to have totally neglected those elegant tributes to the repu- tation of Anacreon. The four epigrams which I give are imputed to Anti- pater Sidonius. They are rendered, perhaps, with too much freedom ; but, designing a translation of all that are on the subject, I imagined it was ne- eessary to enliven their uniformity by sometimes indulging in the liberties of paraphrase. | Avtimatpov Svd0wviov, evs Avakpeovta. Wot Q - "1 as ° Oar?or TETEUKOLULIIOG, AIAXLEOY, LUGI OF KIOI0S Pru Te Asievey TOCDULEOW TETAAGS aya O aeyivoevTos avadABuvro yahauros, eundeg 0 aro yng Hou XEarro webu, CPs UE TOI OTOOIN TE Hou oOTE® reorLuy CONT cs, él Of TIS COinevorg KET rer Es evPcocuva, w 70 Pidov orepSas, Qire, PasBiror, w cov node, THVT OUT AWOUS HO CUY eons Prov, ARounND the tomb, O bard divine! Where soft thy hallow’d brow reposes, Long may the deathless ivy twine, And summer pour her waste of roseg ! And many a fount shall there distil, And many a rill refresh the flowers : But wine shall gush in every rill, And every fount be milky showers. Thus, shade of him whom nature taught To tune his lyre and soul to pleasura, Who gave to love his warmest thought, Who gave to love his fondest measure ! Thus, after death, if Spirits feel, Thou mayst from odours round thee streaming A pulse of past enjoyment steal And live again in blissful dreaming !EPIGRAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA. Tov auTov, €l$ TOV AUTOV. TuuBog Avangeovros, “O Trios evdads nuxvos “Eudes, xn warday Cazorary (ncn, Axuny reiioerrs periCerot &UO1 BadvrdArw “Tueou* xo nicoov Asux0g od00e Ardos. Oud? Aron oor eQwrag aweoPzcey" ev O Anevovros, Quy, dog wOmwerg Kusroids deguoreen. HERE sleeps Anacreon in this ivied shade ; Here, mute in death the Teian swan is laid. And yet, O bard! thou art not mute in death, Still, still we catch thy lyre’s delicious breath ; And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom, Green as the ivy round the mouldering tomb ! Nor yet has death obscured thy fire of love, Still, still it lights thee through th’ Elysian grove ; | And dreams are thine that bless th’ elect alone, And Venus calls thee even in death her own! Tov avTouv, €9 TOV AUTOV. Binve, raQoy Toon Airoyv Avaxosioyros AILE KY, Ey vi vor ex PiPAav nardev eum oerog, VresGov “yn o700IN, CTEITOY YaVOS, ODLH HEV O1VOD Osren ynbno: cane vOTICD EVE, "Qs 6 Aloyuoou wEe“srAnusvos OUKO! AWL0Z" s “ nye c < a) 4 $0 Pikaxnznrou curTeopos K2LoVIxE, Mie xeragbiyucvos Bunyou diya rourey trose Tay even E2070) 7/0120) ODEIAo[LEVOV. O straNGcER! if Anacreon’s shell Has ever taught thy heart to swell With passion’s throb or pleasure’s sigh, In pity turn, as wandering nigh, And drop thy goblet’s richest tear In exquisite libation here ! So shall my sleeping ashes thrill With visions of enjoyment still.a Sere et ce eee ce ieebae ee Sane eee need Seteisaetormech pe ee ee Sea gQees row Tiackttetes te SOMES TTS Seas - en etc ‘t i > ne ree ee } vi rj Bt i MOORE'S POEMS, I cannot even in death resign The festal joys that once were ming, When harmony pursued my ways, And Bacchus listen’d to my lays. Oh! if delight could charm no more, If all the goblet’s bliss were o’er, When fate had once our doom decreed, Then dying would be death indeed ! Nor could I think, unblest by wine, Divinity itself divine ! Lov avtov, evs tov avror. Evderg ev poiuevorory, Avangeov, cobra rovnoas éuder 0 4 yAUuxE2 vuATIA@AOS xidaoe. gh 0 7 yAuxeon vunr \05 210aper, e e evdzs xo Ewegdis, ro Tlodwy £060, G) OU WEALCOW! BasGir’, avexoovov vexrap EVOL2(LOVIOY. > > > nideov yuo Howros eQus oxomrog? ec Os o¢ (Louvoy TOSH Te noe OxoMIUS EIyev ExnBorIas, At length thy golden hours have wing’d their flight, And drowsy death that eyelid steepeth ; Thy harp that whisper’d through each lingering night, Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth ! She too, for whom that harp profusely shed The purest nectar of its numbers, She, the young spring of thy desires has fled, And with her blest Anacreon slumbers ! Farewell! thou hadst a pulse for every dart That Love could scatter fom his quiver ; And every woman found in thee a heart, Which thou with all thy soul couldst give her!THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG: 3 OR, 4 INTERCEPTED LETTERS. H E pie The rere rr er itd pecan ro wa et eer haarm. aes Pern ee ores ere. cee: eee Ts Sy wee ny oe eae al eee eer res panies Gdepaa tenth etivtddk annette na telictaline eee deieientiihteee eden edihtentiae me a ee ke ae pee ee — eect Siemgtresetee - aa a Tie” * io baa er re: a aa - PREFACE, ———____. Tux Bag, from which the followin g Letters are selected, was dropped by a Lwopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the S-pp—ss—n of V—e, who, supposing it might mate- rially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers, and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a trea- sury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet, (if I may use so profane a simile,) who “fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,” * those venerable suppressors almost fought with each other for the honour and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag, Unluckily, however, it turned out, upon examination, that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make lay chiefly in those upper regions of society, which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with. In consequence, they gained but very few victims by their prize, and, after lying for a week or two under Mr H-tch—d’s counter, the Bag, with its violated contents, was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine, It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tricd the strength of my wing but in a newspaper) to publish some- thing or other in the shape of a book; and it occurred tome that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post Epistles, turned into easy verse, would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select fora commencement. I did not think it prudent, howeyer, to give too many Letters at first, and, accordingly, have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some of those TRIFLES which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought I might remedy the thinness of my ranks by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them. Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication ; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a newspaper, though I feel all a parent’s delight at seeing little Miss go alone, Iam also not without a parent’s anxiety lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out the many instances there are of Muses that have suffered severely in their heads from taking too carly and rashly to their feet, Besides, a book is so very different a thing from a newspaper !—in the former, your doggerel, without either company or shelter, must stand shivering in the middle ofa bleak white page by itself; whereas, in the latter, it is comfortably backed by advertisements, and has sometimes even a speech of Mr St-ph-n’s, or something equally warm, for a chauffe-pied ; so that, in general, the very reverse of “‘laudatur et alge” is its destiny. Ambition, however, must run some risks, and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of Sending me te the Post-Bag for more. living * Herrick,THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG, LETTER I. TROM THE PR-NC-SS CH———E OF W——S TO THE LADY BeRB—— A A-SHil Yas My dear Lady Bab, you’ll be shock’d, I’m afraid, When you hear the sad rumpus your ponies have made; Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date) No nags ever made such a stir in the state ! Lord Eld-n first heard—and as instantly pray’d he To God and his king—that a Popish young lady (For though you ’ve bright eyes and twelve thousand a-year, It is still but too true you’re a Papist, my dear) Had insiduously sent, by a tall Irish groom, Two priest-ridden ponies, just landed from Rome, And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks, That the dome of St Paul’s was scarce safe from their kicks ! Off at once to papa, in a flurry, he flies — For papa always does what these statesmen advise, On condition that they’ll be, in turn, so polite As, in no case whate’er, to advise him too right— “‘ Pretty doings are here, Sir,” he angrily cries, While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise; «?’Tis a scheme of the Romanists, To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod— Excuse, Sir, my tears—they ’re from loyalty’s source— Bad enough ’twas for Troy to be sack’d by a horse, But for us to be ruin’d by ponzes, still worse !”’ Quick a council is call’d—the whole Cabinet sits— The Archbishops declare, frighten’d out of their wits, That if vile Popish ponies should eat at my manger, From that awful moment the Church is in danger! As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St Paul's. * This young lady, who is a Roman Catholic, has lately made a present of some beautiful ponies to the Pr—nc-ss. epee eet road pyerriee ret rete r rts tertMOORE'S POEMS, The Doctor and he, the devout man of leather, V-ns-tt—t, now laying their saint-heads together, Declare that these skittish young a-bominations Are clearly foretold in chap. vi. Revelations— Nay, they verily think they could point out the one Which the Doctor’s friend Death was to canter upon ! Lord H-rr—by, hoping that no one imputes To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes, Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies, That had these said creatures been asses, not ponies, The court would have started no sort of objection, As asses were there always sure of protection. “Tf the Pr-ne-ss will keep them,” says Lord O-stl-r—gh, To make them quite harmless the only true way, Is (as certain Chief-Justices do with their wives) To flog them within half an inch of their lives— Jf they ’ve any bad Irish blood lurking about, This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out,” Or—if this be thought cruel—his Lordship proposes “The new Veto snafile to bind down their noses— A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains, Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains; Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks, (Adds his Lordship humanely,) or else breaks their necks!” This proposal received pretty general applause Prom the statesmen around—and the neck-breaking clause Had a vigour about it which soon reconciled Even Eld-n himself to a measure so mild; So the snafiles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con., And my Lord C-stl-r-—gh, having so often shone In the fettering line, is to buckle them on, I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day, But, at present, adieu! I must hurry away To go see my mamma, as I’m suffer’d to meet her For just half-an-hour by the Qu—n’s best repeater. LETTER II. FROM COLONEL M’M-H-N TO G—LD FR-NC-S L-OKIE, ESQ, Drar Sir, I’ve just had time to look Into your very learned book,* * See the last number of the Ldinburgh Review,THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. Wherein—as plain as man can speak, Whose English is half modern Greek— You prove that we can ne’er intrench Our happy isles against the French, Till royalty in England ’s made A much more independent trade— In short, until the house of Guelph Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf, And boldly sets up for itself! All that can well be understood In this said Book is vastly good ; And as to what’s incomprehensible, I dare be sworn ’tis full as sensible. But—to your work’s immortal credit— The P——e, good Sir, the P e has read it, (The only book, himself remarks, Which he has read since Mrs Clarke’s.) Last levee-morn he look’d it through, During that awful hour or two Of grave tonsorial preparation, Which, to a fond, admiring nation, Sends forth, announced by trump and drum, The best wigg’d P——e in Christendom ! He thinks with you, th’ imagination Of partnership in legislation Could only enter in the noddles Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles, Whose heads on firms are running 80, They even must have a King and Co. And hence, too, eloquently shew forth On checks and Galances, and so forth. But now, he trusts, we ‘re coming near ® Better and more royal era; When England’s monarch need but say, “ Whip me those scoundrels, C-stl-r—gh !”’ Or—“ Hang me up those Papists, Eld-n,” And *twill be done—ay, faith, and well done. With view to which, I’ve his command To beg, Sir, from your travell’d hand, (Round which the foreign Graces swarm) A plan of radical Reform ; Compiled and chosen, as best you can, In Turkey or at Ispahan, And quite upturning, branch and root, Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot ! PUTS ddal Salento ioe 26 en meee phased ndtee A = eae ar aie : Seer ee ees eae een eae een ee ee Oe ae beat of es ie cdhedin deed domitierdie ae eee ao. nhpnenpbeelanitnniet cele rete mete tet seme MOORES POEMS. But, pray, whate’er you may impart, write Somewhat more brief than Major C-rtwr-ght. Else, though the P——e be long in rigging, *T would take, at least, a fortnight’s wigging,— Two wigs to every paragraph— Before he well could get through half, You'll send it also speedily— As, truth to say, ’twixt you and me, His Highness, heated by your work, Already thinks himself Grand Turk ! And you’d have laugh’d had you seen how He scared the Ch-nc-l-or just now, When (on his Lordship’s entering puff’d) he Slapp’d his back and call’d him “ Mufti The tailors too have got commands To put directly into hands All sorts of dulimans and pouches, With sashes, turbans, and paboutches, (While Y-rm—th’s sketching out a plan Of new moustaches & l Ottomane) And all things fitting and expedient To turkify our gracious R-g—nt ! You therefore have no time to waste— So send your system,— Yours, in haste. POSTSCRIPT, Brrore I send this scrawl away, I seize a moment just to say, There ’s some parts of the Turkish system So vulgar, ’twere as well you miss’d ’em. For instance—in seraglio matters— Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters, Would fill his haram (tasteless fool !) With tittering, red-check’d things from But here (as in that fairy land Where Love and Age went hand in han Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey, And Grandams were worth any money Our Sultan has much riper notions— So let your list of she-promotions Include those only, plump and sage, Who’ve reach’d the regulation-age ; * The learned colonel must allude here to a descri Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, wher order of nature are said to have taken place. e€ such inversions of tha ”? | school-— daar ption of the MysteriousTHE TWOPENNY POST-BAG, That is—as near as one can fix From peerage dates—full fifty-six ! This rule’s for fav’rites—nothing more— For, as to wives, a Grand Signor, Though not decidedly without them, Need never care one straw about them. Cetin tet nee ee ent whan ‘ Cer ay irr Larner | LETTER III. FROM G. R. TO THE E—— OF Y—-—_. WE miss’d you last night at the “ hoary old sinner’s,” Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners— H His soups scientific—his fishes quite prime— i His pdtés superb—and his cutlets sublime! In short, ’twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a Stomachic orgasm in my Lord E———gh, Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force, And exclaim’d, between mouthfuls, a “ he cook, of course !— While you live—(what’s there under that cover? pray, look\— While you live—(I 'll just taste it)—ne’er keep a she-cook. Tig a sound Salic law—(a small bit of that toast)— Which ordains that a female shall ne’er rule the roast ; For cookery ’s a secret—(this turtle’s uncommon)— Like masonry, never found out by a woman!” The dinner, you know, was in gay celebration Of my brilliant triumph and H—nt’s condemnation ; A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge For his speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge be Turtle-soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl, bs To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul ? g We were all in high gig—Roman punch and tokay Travell’d round, till our heads travell’d just the same way ; And we cared not for Juries or Libels—no nor Even for the threats of last Sunday’s Hxaminer / * SPEEDO SD More good things were eaten than said—but Tom T-rrh-t In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit, And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief Say—sated with turtle—“ Ill now try the beef ”— Tommy whisper’d him (giving his Lordship a sly hit) “T fear ‘twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!” And C-md-n was there, who that morning had gone To fit his new Marquis’s coronet on ; % ‘his letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after dinner given by the M—— of H—.f heeada ee rere ee eee S ohesiethena cane ae errs a wes re uy Piao ae ” Phawtan Vea epee mentored Porches eT coe bere roe eon eoee = ro me oat MOORE’S POEMS, Go Or oo And the dish set before him—oh, dish well-devised !— Was what old Mother Glasse calls “a calf’s-head surprised !” The brains were near ————; and once they’d been fine, But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine, That, however we still might in courtesy call Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains at all. In short, not a soul till this morning would budge-— We were all fun and frolic!—and even the J e Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion, And through the whole night was not once in a passion ! 5 5 I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing, And M—c has a sly dose of jalup preparing For poor T-mmy T-rrh-t at breakfast to quaff— As I feel I want something to give me a laugh, And there’s nothing so good as old T-mmy, kept close To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose ! LETTER IV. ¥ROM THE RIGHT HON. P-TR-CK D—G-N-N T0 THE RIGHT HON, SIR J-—HN N-CH-L. Dublin Last week, dear N-ch-l, making merry At dinner with our Secretary, When all were drunk, or pretty near, (The time for doing business here,) Says he to me, “Sweet Bully Bottom ! These Papist dogs—hiccup—’od rot ’em! Deserve to bespatter’d—hiccup— With all the dirt even you can pick up— But as the P e (here’s to him !—fill— Hip, hip, hurra !) is trying still To humbug them with kind professions, And as you deal in strong expressions— ‘ Rogue’—‘ traitor’—hiccup—and all that— You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat !— You must, indeed—hiccup—that’s flat.” ” Yes—“‘muzzled” was the word, Sir John— These fools have clapp’d a muzzle on The boldest mouth that e’er ran o’er With slaver of the times of yore! +: * This Ictter, which contained some very heavy enclosures, seems to haya been sent to London by a private hand, and then put into the Twopenny Post-office to save trouble. + In sending this sheet to the press, however, I learn that the “muzzle ° has been taken off, and the right honourable doctor let loose again !THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG, Oh! ’tis too much—who now will be The nightman of No-Popery ? What courtier, saint, or even bishop, Such learned filth will ever fish up? If there among our ranks be one To take my place, ’tis thou, Sir John— Thou, who, like me, art dubb’d Right Hon. ; Like me, too, art a lawyer civil That wishes Papists at the devil! To whom, then, but to thee, my friend, Should Patrick * his portfolio send? Take it—’tis thine—his learn’d portfolio, With all its theologic olio Of bulls, half Irish and half Roman,— Of doctrines, now believed by no man— Of councils held for men’s salvation, Yet always ending in damnation, (Which shews that, since the world’s creation, Your priests, whate’er their gentle shamming, Have always had a taste for damning,) And many more such pious craps, To prove (what we’ve long proved, perhaps) That, mad as Christians used to be About the thirteenth century, There’s lots of Christians to be had In this, the nineteenth, just as mad ! Farewell !—I send with this, dear N-ch-l, A rod or two I’ve had in pickle. Wherewith to trim old Gr—tt-n’s jacket — The rest shall go by Monday's packet. F, D, Among the Encloswres in the foregoing Letter was the following “Unanswerable Argument against the Papists.” x % a % “ Wer’re told the ancient Roman nation . . . t Made use of spittle in lustration, (Vide Lactantium ap. Galleeum f— Z.¢., you need not read, but see "em 5) * This is a bad name for poetry; but D—egan-n is worse. + “Tinstralibus ante salivis expiat.”—Per's., Sat. 2. t I have taken the trouble of examining the doctor’s reference here, and. find him, for once, correct. The following are the words of his indignant referee, ~Gallzeus :—‘‘ Asserere non veremur sacrum baptismum a Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione a Paganis non & Chris- tianis manasse.” PAibinwieee eh. npn cs sume eet od eper barrs ered SE ake Ber ode, |i deb taper aetrert bent oss Sa elatel bel betel aa Llane pores pt setae tered ter tee er eked Herries iver ingey ter porn ekeCc Peeeeenee er ees do pebnint treeless Sdhecitiniaadhan eked A, he eee ee St ee ee eee eee Cee ee corte i a er nmitit Co ee Feat Rese cay tahdray ores m ae “ MOORE'S POEMS. Now Ivish Papists (fact surprising !) Make use of spittle in baptizing, Which proves them all—O’Finns, O’Fagans, Connors, and Tooles—all downright Pagans ! This fact ’s enough—let no one tell us To free such sad, salivous fellows— No—no—the man baptized with spittle Hath no truth in him—not a tittle! * * % #& LETTER V. FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C—— TO LADY -—— My dear Lady ! I’ve been just sending out Above five hundred cards for a snug little rout— (By the by, you’ve seen Rokeby ?—this moment got mine— The Mail-Coach Edition *—prodigiously fine ! ) But I can’t conceive how, in this very cold weather, I’m ever to bring my five hundred together; As, unless the thermometer’s near boiling heat, One can never get half of one’s hundreds to meet— (Apropos—you ’d have laugh’d to see Townsend last night, Escort to their chairs, with his staff so polite, The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright, Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts, Supervisor of thieves, and chief usher of ghosts.) But, my dear Lady ——! can’t you hit on some notion At least for one night to set London in motion ? As to having the R-g-nt—that show is gone by— Besides, I’ve remark’d that (between you and I) The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways, Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways; Which—consid’ring, you know, dear, the size of the two — Makes a block that one’s company cannot get through, And a house such as mine, with doorways so small, Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all ! (Apropos, though, of love-\;work,— ‘you ’ve heard it, I hope, That Napoleon’s old mother’s to marry the Pope— : What a comical pair !)—but to stick to my rout, *Twill be hard if some novelty can’t be struck out, Is there no Algerine, no Kamschatkan arrived 2 No Plenipo-Pacha, three-tail’d and ten-wived 2 No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame ? * See Mr Murray’s advertisement about the mail-coach copies of Rokeby. a reTHE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. { remember the time, three or four winters back, When—provided their wigs were but decently black— A few patriot monsters from Spain were a sight That would people one’s house for one, night after night, But—whether the Ministers paw’d them too much, (And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch,) Or whether Lord G-rge (the young man about town) Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down— One has certainly lost one’s peninsular rage, And the only stray patriot seen for an age Has been at such places (think how the fit cools !) As old Mrs V-n’s, or Lord L-v-rp—l's! But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off— So get me a Russian--till death I’m your debtor— If he brings the whole alphabet so much the better, And, indeed, if he would but in character sup Off his fish-oil and candles, he’d quite set me up! Au revoir / my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste— Little Gunter has brought me the liqueurs to taste. POSTSCRIPT. 3y the by, have you found any friend that can construe hat Latin account, tother day, of a monster? * If we can’t get a Russian, and that thing in Latin Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in. LETTER VI. FROM ABDALLAH,} IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN, Wuutst thou, Mohassan (happy thou !) Dost daily bend thy loyal brow Before our king—our Asia’s treasure ! Nutmeg of Comfort! Rose of Pleasure !— And bear’st as many kicks and bruise As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses— * Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin advertisement of a lusus nature in the spapers lately. ae! ieee sada many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of religious liberty, how- ever, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers, and he is arrived just in time to assist the P——e and Mr L-ck-e in their new oriental plan of Re- form. (See the second of these Letters.) How Abdallah’s epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-bag is more than | can pretend to account for. rr SSUES WR ; cee tate eter eels babe et beta escent eo et Se eae phish tape 4 Wada tenesee ee een annem whine niet ane dpe heiit i feiston arenas Coes poe Seapeeregees noniiiencaieadtiantinndhietan ities cs Mune eae Sie een tert ppeeamnt athe chee ee al a MOORE’S POEMS, Thy head still near the bowstring’s borders, And but left on till further orders !— Through London streets with turban fair, And caftan floating to the air, I saunter on—the admiration Of this short-coated population — This sew’d-up race—this button’d nation— Who, while they boast their law so free, Leave not one limb at liberty, But live, with all their lordly speeches, The slaves of buttons and tight breeches ! Yet though they thus their knee-pans fetter, (They ’re Christians, and they know no better,*) In some things they ’re a thinking nation— And on religious toleration I own I like their notions quite, They are so Persian and so right! You know our Sunnites,} hateful dogs Whom every pious Shiite flogs, Or longs to flog {—’tis true, they pray To God, but in an ill-bred way; With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces Stuck in their right canonic places! § "Tis true, they worship Ali’s name ||— Lheir heaven and owrs are just the same— (A Persian’s heaven is eas’ly made, ‘Tis but black eyes and lemonade.) Yet—though we’ve tried for centuries back-— We can’t persuade the stubborn pack, By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers, To wear th’ establish’d pea-green slippers ! 4 * “C'est un honnéte homme,’ said a Turkish governor of De Ruyter; ““c’est grand dommage qu’il soit Chrétien.” : 1 Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Moham- medan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecutine each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between tuem turn chiefly upon those important points which our pious pe Abdallan, in the true spirit of Shiite ascendancy, reprobates in this etter. { “‘Les Sunnites, qui etoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme., ’*— D Herbelot. § “In contradistinction to the Sounis, who, in their prayers, cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, the Shiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their {ore- heads on the ground or carpet, the Shiahs,” &¢c.—Jorster’s Voyage. | ‘‘ Les Tures ne detestent pas Ali reciproquement ; au contraire, ils le re- connoissent,” &¢.—Chardin. 4, ‘The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination.” —AMariti ,THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. Then—only think—the libertines ! They wash their toes—they comb their chins* With many more such deadly sins! And (what’s the worst, though last I rank it) Believe the chapter of the blanket ! Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious, (Which must, at bottom, be seditious, As no man living would refuse Green slippers, but from treasonous views Nor wash his toes, but with intent To overturn the Government !) Such is our mild and tolerant way, We only curse them twice a day (According to a form that’s set, ) And, far from torturing, only let All orthodox believers beat ’em, And twitch their beards where’er they meet ’em. ~ ‘As to the rest, they ’re free to do Vhate’er their fancy prompts them to, Provided they make nothing of it Towards rank or honour, power or profit; Which things, we naturally expect, Belong to us, the establish'd sect, Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked !) Th’ aforesaid chapter of the blanket. The same mild views of toleration Inspire, I find, this button’d nation, Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us. The tender Gazel I enclose Is for my love, my Syrian Rose— Take it, when night begins to fall, And throw it o’er her mother’s wall. GAZEL, Bememberest thou the hour we past, hat hour, the happiest and the last ! -- Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn To summer bees, at break of morn, Not half so sweet, through dale and dell, "Fo camels’ ears the tinkling bell, * For these points of differ ence, as well as for the Chapter of the Bianket, I must refer the reader to Picart’s Account of the Mohammedan Sects, i A a ee ee Lvl dead Hebd wept doytg | pod ar ett ti abet td Ate teas: ee hed ted reheat BTN YTS TINTon oe eo be | MOORE'S POEMS, As is the soothing memory Of that one precious hour to moe! iow can we live so far apart ? Oh! why not rather, heart to heart, United live and die— Like those sweet birds that fly together With feather always touching feather, Link’d by a hook and eye! * LETTER VII. FROM MESSRS L-CK—GT-N AND Co. TO—— ——, rsq.t Soak oie. ne - PER post, Sir, we send your MS.—look’d it through— Very sorry—but can’t undertake—’twouldn’t do. Clever work, Sir !—would get up prodigiously well— Its only defect is—it never would sell ! And though statesmen may glory in being unbought, In an author, we think, Sir, that’s rather a fault, Hard times, Sir,—most books are too dear to be read— Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit’s small-change are fled, Yet the paper we publishers pass, in their stead, Rises higher each day, and (’tis frightful to think it !) Not even such names as F-tzg-r—d’s can sink it ! eee te ee aie WEEN oe or Sh ee ee oe = rete ee eer eee ees However, Sir—if you’re for trying again, And at somewhat that’s vendible—we are your men. Since the Chevalier Carr took to marrying lately, The trade is in want of a traveller greatly — No job, Sir, more easy—your country once plann’d, A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your quarto of travellers, Sir, clean out of hand, An East-India pamphlet’s a thing that would tell— And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well. Or—supposing you’ve nothing original in you— Write parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you, You'll get to the bluestocking routs of Alb-n-a! 38 (Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse Musin’t think of aspiring to mess with the Bl ues.) A A ng sae anon on ee eat eres tee se P Pa poker Bases cealeetees tote ate’ tps aE Liat moet ints — * This will appear strange to an Wnelish reader, but it is literally trans- lated from Abdallah’s Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find an account in Richardson. + From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow-feéling, I suppress the name of the author whose rejected manuscript was enclosed in this letter. {t This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence which is said to have passed lately between Alb-n-a, Countess of B-ck—gh-ms—e, and a certain ingenious parodist. a a —THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG. Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do- You surely are fit, Sir, at least to revzew / Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, We’ve a scheme to suggest—Mr Sc-tt, you must know, (Who we’re sorry to say it, now works for the Row,)* Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, Is coming, by long quarto stages, to town ; And beginning with Rokeby (the job’s sure to pay) Means to do all the gentlemen’s seats on the way. Now, the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him) To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him; Who—by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches— May do a few villas before Sc-tt approaches— Indeed, if our Pegasus be not very shabby, He’ll reach, without found’ring, at least Woburn Abbey. Such, Sir, is our plan—if you ’re up to the freak, 'Tis a match! and we'll put you % traming next week— At present, no more—in reply to this letter, a Line will oblige very much Yours, et cetera. Temple of the Muses. The manuscript, which I found in the bookseller’s letter, is a melo- drama, in two acts, entitled “The Book,” of which the theatres, of course, had had the refusal before it was presented to Messrs L-ck-net-n & Co. This rejected drama, however, possesses con- siderable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my readers. The first act opens in a very awful manner :—Time, three o'clock in the morning—Scene, the Bourbon chamber in C-r-l-t-n House. Enter the P e R-g—t solus. After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims :— Away !—away !— Thou haunt’st my fancy so, thou devilish Book ! I meet thee, trace thee wheresoe’er I look. I see thy ink in Eld-n’s brow— I see thy foolscap upon H-rtf—d’s spouse— V_ns-tt—t’s head calls thy leathern case, And all thy blank-leaves stare from R-d—t’s face! While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart) I find, ah wretched elf ! Thy list of dire errata in myself. (Walks the stage im considerable agitation.) * Paternoster Row. : + Cee eeebor: I suppose, which was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons, at the first grand fete, and which was ornamented (all ‘‘for the deliverance of Europe ”) with fleur-de-lis. ee hones eS etersne Sidiciebekstatape ad mt Sec snk a of six hundred years, se themes of national is song hem in and original, before ned, and disgraced at this day to comme- untry, are to be looked for ud displayed and fostered S wore collars of gold which | , and our Briens deserved the It may be period, to The only traits of heroism which he can ventureINTOLERANCE: A SATIRE. All which it is in reality but little entitled, and that most of the pictures which we dwell on so fondly, of days when this island was distinguished amidst the gloom of Europe, by the sanctity of her morals, the spirit of her knighthood, and the polish of her schools, are little more than the inventions of national partiality,—that bright but spurious offspring which vainly engenders upon ignorance, and with which the first records of every people abound, But the sceptic is scarcely to be envied who would pause for stronger proofs than we already possess of the early glories of Ireland; and were even the veracity of all these proofs surrendered, yet who would not fly to such flattering fictions from the sad, degrading truths which the history of later times presents to us? The language of sorrow, however, isin general best suited to our music; and with themes of this nature the poet may be amply supplied. There is not a page of our annals which cannot afford him a subject, and while the national muse of other countries adorns her temple with trophies of the past, in Ireland her altar, like the shrine of Pity at Athens, is to be known only by the tears that are shed upon it; ‘‘lacrymis aliaria sudant.” There is a well-known story related of the Antiochians under the reign of Theodosius, which is not only honourable to the powers of music in general, but which applies so peculiarly to the mournful melodies of Ireland, that I cannot resist the temptation of introducing it here. The piety of Theo- dosius would have been admirable if it had not been stained with intoler- ance; but his reign affords, I believe, the first example of a disqualifying penal code enacted by Christians against Christians.* Whether his interfer- ence with the religion of the Antiochians had any share in the alienation of their loyalty is not expressly ascertained by historians; but severe edicts, heavy taxation, and the rapacity and insolence of the men whom he sent to govern them, sufiiciently account for the discontents of a warm and sus- ceptible people. Repentance soon followed the crimes into which their im- patience had hurried them; but the vengeance of the Emperor was im- placable, and punishments of the most dreadful nature hung over the city of ‘Antioch, whose devoted inhabitants, totally resigned to despondence, wan- dered through the streets and public assemblies, giving utterance to their eyief in dirges of the most touching lamentation. At length, Flavianus, their bishop, whom they sent to intercede with Theodosius, finding all his entreaties coldly rejected, adopted the expedient of teaching these songs of sorrow which he had heard from the lips of his unfortunate countrymen to the minstrels who performed for the Emperor at table. The heart of Theo- dosius could not resist this appeal ; tears fell fast into his cup while he listened, and the Antiochians were forgiven. Surely, if music ever spoke the misfor- tunes of a people, or could ever conciliate forgiveness for their errors, the tausie of Ireland ought to possess those powers. Srart not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain Her classic fingers with the dust profane Of bulls, decrees, and fulminating scrolls, That took such freedom once with royal souls, * ¢¢A sort of civil excommunication,” says Gibbon, ‘‘which separated them from their fellow-citizens by a peculiar brand of infamy; and this declara- tion of the supreme magistrate tended to justify, or at least to excuse, the insults of a fanatic populace. The sectaries were gradually disqualified for the possession of honourable or lucrative employments, and Theodosius was satisfied with his own justice when he decreed, that, as the Eunomians dis- tinguished the nature of the Son from that of the Father, they should be in- capable of making their wills, or of receiving any advantage from testa- mentary donations.” ee PETE SNSeee ae ertees ms; iti Eee: oe ee een at ee a i coninteie adie ae as Sfonduetn aduteeesiee ce ee one ener ns a oe oe ees rate “ ae re Sindee ent tbdiedes nen Pawan aeaenon epee sae eee ese oe oben era leg om Re tetaete teeter ete aoe Cate essen os ees : Pocten semeiontpes oc~nsna te entontberm 412 TOORE’S POEMS, When heaven was yet the Pope’s exclusive trade, And kings were damn’d as fast as now they ’re made. No, no—let D-gen-n search the papal chair For fragrant treasures long forgotten there; And as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, Let sallow P-re-v-l snuff up the gale Which wizard D-gen-n’s gather’d sweets exhale; Enough for me, whose heart has learn’d to scorn Bigots alike in Rome or England born, Who loathe the venom whencesoe’er it springs, From popes or lawyers, pastry-cooks or kings,— Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, As mirth provokes, or indignation burns. As C-nn-ng vapours, or as France succeeds, As H-wk-sb’ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds ! And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice, that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile— If, in such fearful days, thou ’lt dare to look Lo hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, While G-ff-rd’s tongue and M-sgr-ve’s pen remain— If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, Whose wrongs, though blazon’d o’er the world they be, Placemen alone are privileged not to see— Oh! turn a while, and, though the shamrock wreathes My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes Of Ireland’s slavery and of Ireland’s woes, Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes Shall but exist all future knaves to warn, Embalm’d in hate and canonised by scorn. When C-stl-r—gh, in sleep still more profound Than his own opiate tongue deals around, Shall wait th’ impeachment of that awful day, Which even his practised hand can’t bribe away. And, O my friend, wert thou but near me now To see the spring diffuse o’ex Erin’s brow Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair, Even through the blood-marks left by C-md-n there, Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod, And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, That warms the soul of each insulted slave, Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot.INTOLERANCE: A SATIRE, 413 And seems by all but watchiul France forgot *— Thy heart would burn—yes, even thy Pittite hears Would burn, to think that such a blooming part Of the world’s garden, rich in nature’s charms, And fill’d with social souls and vigorous arms, Should be the victim of that canting crew, So smooth, so godly,—yet so devilish too; Who, arm’d at once with prayer-books and with whips, Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips, Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text, Make this life hell, in honour of the next / Your R-desd-les, P-re-v-ls—O gracious Heaven, If I’m presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, When here I swear, by my soul’s hope of rest, I’d rather have been born, ere man was blest With the pure dawn of Revelation’s light, Yes.—rather plunge me back in Pagan night 2 5 z 5 5 2; And take my chance with Soérates for bliss, Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, And in a convert mourns to lose a prey ; Which binding polity in spiritual chains, And tainting piety with temporal stains, Corrupts both state and Church, and makes au oath The knave and atheist’s passport into both; Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know Nor bliss above nor liberty below, Adds the slave’s suffering to the sinner’s fear, And, lest he ’scape hereafter, racks him here! But no—far other faith, far milder beams Of heavenly justice warm the Christian’s dreams; His creed is writ on Mercy’s page above By the pure hands of all-atoning love: He weeps to see his soul’s religion twine The tyrant’s sceptre with her wreath divine ; + And he, while round him sects and nations raise To the one God their varying notes of praise, * The example of toleration which Bonaparte has given will, I fear, pro- juce no other effect than that of determining the British Government to per- sist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice. é ss + Mr Fox, in his speeeh on the Repeal of the Test Act, (1790,) thus con- demuns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of astate :— « ae MOORES OEMS, Blesses each voice, whate’er its tone may be, That serves to swell the general harmony. Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, That fill’d, O Fox! thy peaceful soul with light ; While, blandly speeding, like that orb of air Which folds our planet in its circling care, The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind fmbraced the world, and breathed for all mankind. Last of the great, farewell !—yet not the last— Though Britain’s sunshine hour with thee be past, Irene still one gleam of glory gives, And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.SACRED SONGS, ah AUST ANT OTT i DRIES MEENLE sruneees rere Pat « za ae abhi eT Pals ba Mayree tearhou: crore ” OU ee re ee Lpbcbt del Coors eee recent ors rey bits eet Sahat peverraery {debe Pelaseashauontabet ee o — Lerten she rai eee ea prerr AYE We yet elt ape om pacha Re rery tot nets - ae. Vall or erea he a ETT reer Cereal peat ar 7 daha pely dewmawengs, pO eon matans po seer poo teeny ene ad daite bt ye tal ene Tee ere! ree Pree ie Tra renee tiie ye See reerten ie cron Ebates Pe eet eters Perera eT rT = < 4 a . a = 7 n 4 > 3 ° 2 a ed ‘3 . © + £3 rH > z : i i i 7 i t > + a ae hey SN my a ya ela ae mere reel Tuy r vers A elie Prre nk ee a ppeen nets ‘ Ba) has : rr laa te cedSACRED SONGS. THOU ART, O GOD. (Airn—Unknown.) ‘The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.”—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17. TxHovu art, O God, the life and light Of all this wond’rous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where’er we turn Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine! When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the op’ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven— Those hues that make the sun’s decline So. soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, O’ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes— That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine, When youthful spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye, Where’er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine ! Sek ee ooh eet) nt petiit-tcpeeend belek al es rere) Seles peererienery ASIAING Perret tren peor ibh ise Tair tt ty banatee ned a 5 ie en ee eee eae cataich nit intents Reese eseneros heeds totaueate idishdihiaedancaiandiadeact ae a ae 2 pr ir agen Doi io eng 8 : Pets a Setienatiientetdaedh tahoe cs oo a en Ae = hemcinake cic ee * ere ce eee MOORES POEMS. THE BIRD LET LOOSE, (Atr—BEETHOVEN.) Tux bird let loose in eastern skies,” When hast’ning fondly home, Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air, To hold my course to Thee! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs ;— Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings ! FALLEN IS THY THRONE, (Atrv—MartinL) FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel! Silence is o’er thy plains ; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains! Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham’s barren shore ? That fire from heaven which led thes, Now lights thy path no more. Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem— Once she was all Thy own; Her love Thy fairest heritage t Her power Thy glory’s throne,} Till evil came and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree ; §— * The carrier-pigeon, it is well-known, flies at an clevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is des- tined. + “TI have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies.”—Jev. xii. 7. t ‘Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.” —Jer. xiv. 21. § “The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree; fair and of goodly fruit,’ &c,. —Jar, xi. 16.ie fatten ie Saat ras oem SACRED SONGS. Pei? ae Tree And Salem’s shrines were lighted For other gods than Thee. Then sunk the star of Solyma— Then pass’d her glory’s day, Like heath that in the wilderness* The wild wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers, Where Baal reign’d as God. * Go ”—said the Lord—“ Ye conquerors ! Steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements,‘ For they are not the Lord’s. Till Zion’s mournful daughter O’er kindred bones shall tread, And Hinnom’s vale of slaughter £ Shall hide but half her dead!” bt phe eet een tatas Sede bl pepe edclohedahdehe aed alaoat Sores METRES WHO IS THE MAID? ST JEROME’S LOVES ie (Air —BEETHOVEN.) 4a VHO is the Maid my spirit seeks, Through cold reproof and slander’s blight ? Has she Love’s roses on her cheeks ? Is hers an eye of this world’s light? No—wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the bale looks of her I love; Or if at times a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above. ASD RT ART WIC EOE ict: I chose her not, my soul's elect, From those who seek their Maker’s shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck’d, As if themselves were things divine. No—Heaven but faintly warms the breast | That beats beneath a broider’d veil ; ® ‘Bor he shall be like the heath in the desert.” —Jer. xvii. 6. + “Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord’s.”—Jer. v. 10. ag t ‘“‘Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place.”—Jer. vii. 32. § These lines were suggested by a passage in St Jerome’s reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated respecting his intimacy with the matron Paula.eee ae hat ta So . ee eee i ethene ss marr isn Poa a ee a Ts ee eae whe pesto ai ar mere Pore he a a Be es a ee aed eee a eo a foe B a a ee ot "a te MOORE'S POEMS. And she who comes in glitt’ring vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail. Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone ; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne’er was beauty’s dawn so bright, So touching as that form’s decay, Which, like the altar’s trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. (Air—StTEVENSON.) Tus world is all a fleeting show, For man’s illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow— There’s nothing true but heayen ! And false the light on glory’s plume, As fading hues of even! And love and hope and beauty’s bloom Are blossoms gather’d for the tomb— There ’s nothing bright but heaven! Poor wand’rers of a stormy day ! From wave to wave we’re driven, And fancy’s flash and reason’s ray Serve but to light the troubled way— There’s nothing calm but heaven ! O THOU WHO DRY’ST THE MOURNERS TEAR. (Atv —Haypvy.) *ITe healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”— Psalm cxivii. 3. O Tnov who dry’st the mourner’s tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee ? The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown;SACRED SONGS. 421 And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. Ween joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears Is dimm’d and vanish’d too, Oh, who would bear life’s stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our Peace-branch from above ! Then sorrow, touch’d by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture’s ray ; As darkness shews us worlds of light We never saw by day! : | | WEEP NOT FOR THOSH, (Air—AVISON.) WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb In life’s happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o’er the spirit’s young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Death chill’d the fair fountain ere sorrow had stain’d it; Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has unchain’d it, To water that Eden where first was its source. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb In life’s happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o’er the spirit’s young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale,* Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life’s early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of love was yet iresh on her brow. ¥ This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne Church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after; the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium; she sung several hymns in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection (particularly ‘‘There’s Nothing Bright but Heaven,”) which this very interesting girl had often heard dur- ing the summer. ORES SUNRISE i Priptnoe \ ore Peatscel nt tal tt siete nina] prone prperey eres ety Lt = aahoa reg , _ er tea * al — , 2 Rites Baki nie eo fg nen dent vege poy ene St Sree : . cornet Se ai er te 492 MOORE'S POEMS. Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown — And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Were echo’d in heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her—in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl’; And now, like a star beyond evening’s cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE, (Aw—STEVENSON.) Tut turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; My temple, Lord! that arch of thine; My censer’s breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers. My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murm’ring homeward to their caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, Even more than music, breathes of Thee | I’ll seek by day some glade unknown, All light and silence, like Thy throne ; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite. Thy heaven, on which ’tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of Thy wond’rous name. T’ll read Thy anger in the rack That clouds a while the day-beam’s track ; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness breaking through. There’s nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some features of Thy Deity; There ’s nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace Thy love, And meekly wait that moment when Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! eeSACRED SONGS. 423 SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. MIRIAM S SONG. (Air—AvISON.*) e sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her «And Miriam the prophctess, th rer her with timbrels and with dances.” hand; and all the women went out af —Hrod. xv. 20 Sounp the loud timbrel o’er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has trijmph’d—His people are free ! Sing—for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave— How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea; Jehovah has triumph’d—His people are free! raise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sworu. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look’d out from His pillar of glory,} And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide, Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah has triumph’d—His people are free! GO, LET ME WEEP. (Air —STEVENSON.) Go, let me weep—there’s bliss in tears When he who sheds them inly feels Some ling’ring stain of early years EEffaced by every drop that steals. The fruitless showers of worldly woe Fall dark to earth and never rise ; While tears that from repentance fiow, In bright exhalement reach the skies. Go, let me weep, &e. Leave me to sigh o’er hours that flew More idly than the summer's wind, And while they pass’d a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind. * Thave so much altered the character of this air, which is from the be- ginning of one of Avison’s old-fasbioned concertos, that, without this ac- knowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised. <©And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the Lord looked un!o the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Bgyptians.’—Lzod. X1v. 24, nO Bs ee ee coer eetnines eu Picerbr audit Lm Lee en errr pore Sostueererey Lrduptebich sone oo cirri424 MOORE'S POEMS. The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves Is cold, is faint, to those that swell The heart where pure repentance grieves O’er hours of pleasure loved too well. Leave me to sigh, &c. COME NOT, O LORD. (Auw—Hayopn.) Come not, O Lord, in the dread robe of splendour Thou worest on the mount, in the day of Thine ire : Come veil’d in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, Which merey flings over Thy features of fire ! Lord, thou rememb’rest the night when Thy nation * Stood fronting her foe by the red-rolling stream ; On Egypt Thy pillar frown’d dark desolation, While Israel bask’d all the night in-its beam. So when the dread clouds of anger infold Thee From us, in Thy mercy, the dark side remove; While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee, Oh, turn upon us the mild light of Thy love! WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY’S TEARS, (Ati—Srrvenson.) WERE not the sinful Mary’s tears An offering worthy Heaven, When o’er the faults of former years She wept—and was forgiven ? When, bringing every balmy sweet Her day of luxury stored, She o’er her Saviour’s hallow’d feet The precious perfume pour’d; And wiped them with that golden hair Where once the diamonds shone is Though now those gems of grief were there Which shine for God alone! Were not those sweets, though humbly shed— That hair—those weeping eyes— ¥ “ And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Is- rael; and it was acloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night te these.”—Evod. xiv. 20.SACRED SONGS. And the sunk heart that inly bled— Heaven’s noblest sacrifice ? Thou that hast slept in error’s sleep, Oh, wouldst thou wake in heaven, Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, 3 “Tove much,” * and be forgiven ! AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS, (Air—Hayon.) Ag down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee, My God! silent to Thee— Pure, warm, silent to Thee. Ag still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea, So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, a The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee, : My God! trembling to Thee— a True, fond, trembling to Thee. ssarmgarmertcs BUT WHO SHALL SEE. (Aur-—STEVENSON.) But who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion’s brow, The Lord shall rend that veil away Which hides the nations now? When earth no more beneath the fear Of His rebuke shall lie! £ When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wiped from every eye.§ PPS SAREE II BEE * “Ter sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much.”—Luke vii. 42. + “And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the covering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over aJl nations.” —Jsa. xxv. 7. ¢ “The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth.’”’— Isa. XXV. 8. : : § “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes;....- .- neither shall there be any more pain.”—Rev. xxi. 4.ee ee eet pomeeoeseers P Pe can ae nd me en at eshte hay teterne =k onto aee coated tere ee lice eatihca nt ie tire ne kh et oe St eh ie ester teen ae pdidcwatchipadtaaditie ee ee eee ae ts 426 MOORE'S POEMS. Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn Beneath the heathen’s chain; Thy days of splendour shall return, And all be new again. * The fount of life shall then be quaff’d In peace by all who come; And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home. ALMIGHTY GOD! CHORUS OF PRIESTS. (Air—Mozanrt.) AtmigHtTy God! when round Thy shrine The palm-tree’s heavenly branch we twine,:: (Emblem of life’s eternal ray, And love that “fadeth not away,”) We bless the flowers, expanded all, § We bless the leaves that never fall, - And trembling say,—“ In Eden thus The tree of life may flower for us!” When round Thy cherubs—smiling calm, Without their flames||—we wreathe the palm, O God! we feel the emblem true— Thy mercy is eternal too. Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes, That crown of palm which never dies, Are but the types of Thee above— Kternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! * -¢ And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.” —Rev. xxi. 5. 7 ‘‘And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”—Rev, xxii. { ‘The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jcrusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conchide that the Palms, which made £0 conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Jmmor- tality which were brought to light by the Gospel.”—Observations on the Palin as a Sacred Einblem, by W. Tighe. § “And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open flowers.” —1 Kings vi. 29. | “‘ When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to the great law- giver on the mount, then the cherubie images which appeared in that struc- ture were no longer surrounded by fiames; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation of mercy, by which Jpsovan confirmed His gracious cove- uant to redeem mankind.” —Observations on the Peli.was taken. SACRED SONGS, O FAIR! O PUREST! SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER. * (Atv—Moor.) © rain! O purest! be thou the dove That flies alone to some sunny grove, And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, All vestal white, in the limpid spring, There, if the hovering hawk be near, That limpid spring in its mirror clear, Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey, And warns the timorous bird away. Oh, be like this dove; O fair! O purest! be like this dove. The sacred pages of God’s own Book Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, In whose holy mirror, night and day, Thou lt study Heaven’s reflected ray ;— And should the foes of virtue dare, With gloomy wing, to seek thee there, Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fiy I Oh, be like this dove; O fair! O purest! be like this dove. * In St Aucustine’s Treatise upon the Advantages of a &c dressed to his sister, there is a passage from which the though li “J £ bar to y £ Life, ad- this songas 2 nee ” es weg st nye ee esr reematien aaa i | SNES AE Rem aw wn a or coe ornare et a eer ne ee en eae Aeraa Saaty i rs OP Pent ote b o-daes eeepenhienl obdiyay lore setae coment eh meme ee ps sett — Po aos henge peeeitee ee ions "i sspiene PE 3IRISH MELODIES. Pe er er erry ran ay peneasryistiperiiinly EC rer ners rer Siero ai foteb dnertce rea rarer hats h 2 Lila te He teees. ween cnr Sarre bers t re te [eet les erent ears rere) bibibetidelanek sokletiiea et Peart iM eee eet Sy rene eae erat pees Upkdsbontae eee LCT Peed re Cad rad Peret he baa WOES a HF tt HEH oe be eld teen Pores er barr) ererer ee eile Tr ore ett! er she ha tein paiva eorraer venenatis) Am wedpummnsie tami denben ON a et ieee Va rena eC Ertl ies i ee a pea ee et Le ad ere re etter er re ad oe tpl oe STs ore Coe eae ) eres Perret ere Ponsa oteee eee ra te oe a ee ee OPM EE acre ne - Sa on ee eee ee eee ne us aioe Searsaoiaes os 5 eee nen se RTS Sa eh en anh per Ee oe eae ee PREFATORY LETTER ON MUSIC. It has often been remarked, and oftencr felt, that our music is the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance, succecded by the lan- gour of despondency—a burst of turbulence dying away into softness—the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next—and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems peculiarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose * marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to Worship their God in caves, or to quit for ever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated ;) and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honours that await him abroad—such honours as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favour of the French, and extorted from George II. that memorable exclamation, ‘ Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects !” Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no further than the last disgraceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which were at once the offspring and solace of grief, aud which were applied to the mind as music was formerly to the body; *“decantare loca dolentia.” Mr Pinkerton is of opinion that none of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century ; and hough musical antiquaries refer us for some of our melodies to so early a period as the fifth century, Iam persuaded that there are few of a ciwilized * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxili- aries in The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose, (1660.) Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to this small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell. whensTRISH MELODIES. 431 description (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage ceanans, cries,* &¢.) which can claim quite so ancient a date as Mr Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged; and, however heretical it may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour and happiness, without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Para- dise +—that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks {—or that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of the north of Treland.§ By sume of these archeeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early acquainted with the counterpoint, || and they endeavour to support this conjecture by a well-known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates with such elaborate praise upon the beauties o of this eulogy are too vague, too defi even Giraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of counterpoint. There are many expressions in the Greek with much more plausibility to prove that they understood the arrangement of music in parts; ** yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that however grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity of modern science to transmit the ‘light of song” through the variegating pr Indeed the irregular scale of the Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting) +} must have furnished but £ our national minstrelsy. But the terms cient in technical accuracy, to prove that and Latin writers which might be cited ism of harmony. early Irish (in which, as in the music of * Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr Walker's Mr Bunting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rhapsodies. work upon the Irish Bards. + See Advertisement to the Trans + O’Halloran, vol. i., part i., chap § Id. ib., chap. vil. | It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understoed the diésis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound may lie in the way of its practical ludes de V Harmonie, quest. 7,) that the the theory of mtsic would be imper- fect without it; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among others, very justly re- marks, (Observations on Florid Song, on the violin who does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and H flat, though, from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same notes upon the pianoforte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic transi- tions is also very striking and beautiful. ** The words qrouktAta and érepoPeavia, in a passage of Plato, and some in fragment, lib. ii, De Republ., induced the Abbé Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counterpoint. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily, (‘‘ Examen aton,” in the third volume of Histoire deUV Acad.) M. Huet is of opinion (Pensées Diverses) that what Cicero says of the music of the expressions of Cicero, d’un Passage de Pl spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is harmony; but one of the strongest supposition occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle, Ilept Koopuv— B.ovolky O¢€ o&eis apd Kat Bapets, kK. T.A. ++ Ancther lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what com- fifths; but this is an irregularity which can hardly be posers call ecnsecutive A ICT actions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin. Evie ; and, whatever difficulties or objections use, we must agree with Mersenne, (Pre- chap. i., § 16,) there is no good performer sufficient to prove an acquaintance with passages which I recollect in favour of the iret Mi i) retire ares aera) Bib be et es Ld Pum eee ee Cree tet Cs B p a eee ee eet errr ot aePee nin aee tere cements a eee eee nes a Lead See ees — cherie ietee tometone ool a creme tate tet ee Nae ne ath na ent ae a em 432 MOORE'S POEMS. wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was oly when the inven- tion of Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp * were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which inte- rests us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale,{ our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of har- mony and counterpoint. In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still kept its originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan bad frequent opportunities of hearing the works of Geminiani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he laboured to imitate Corelli; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture, In general, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itsclf free from all tinge of foreign innovation,t and the chicf corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the uuskilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, encumbered avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ;. in- deed, if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule? I have been told that there are instances in Haydn of an undisguised succession of fifths; and Mr Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the same irregularity. * A sincular oversight occurs in an Essay on the Irish Harp by Mr Beau- ford, which is inserted in the Appendix to IValker’s Historical Memoirs. ‘‘The Irish,” says he, ‘‘according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry 1I., had two kinds of harps, ‘Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis precipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jucundam,’ the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing.” How a man of Mr Beauford’s learning could so mistake the meaning and mutilate the grammatical con- struction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage as I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to perceive the in- justice which has been done to the words of the old chronicler :—*‘‘ lt cum Scotia, hujus terree filia, utatur lyr, tympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis et chora Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis precipitem et velocem, suavem tanen et jucundam, crispatis modulis et intricatis notulis, ¢fjictunt harmoniam,” (Hist. Anglic. Script., p. 1075.) I should not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dis- sertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr Bunting’s last work, has adopted it implicitly. + The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our saints, and the learned Dempster was, for this offence, called ‘‘ The Saint-stealer.” Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception, perhaps, of the air called ‘‘ Mamma, Mamma,” and one or two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of natural noises, motions, &c., which disgraces so often the works of even the great Handel himself. D’Alembert ought to have had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative affectation, (Discours Préliminaire de U Encyclo- pédiz.) The reader may find some good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression; a work which, though under the name of Avison. was written, it is said, by Dr Brown, esIRISH MELODIES. 433 by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet in most of them, ‘‘ auri per ramos aura refulget,”* the pure gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, as much as possible, by retrench- ing these inelegant superfluities, and collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of its form, and the chaste sim- plicity ofits character. I must again observe that, in doubting the antiquity of our music, my scepticism extends but to those polished specimens of the art which it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were ennobled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were as success- ful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. With respect to the verses which I have written for these melodies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than their sense; yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my country by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their energy, and their tenderness. Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from the rigours of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathises with the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. -It has been accordingly said, that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, } and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics—as fair aud precious vessels (to borrow an image of St Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered, To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hostility towards England—to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered ! {—to such men I shall not deign to apolo- gise for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in * Virgil, Zneid, lib. 6, v. 204. : + See Letters, under the signatures of “Timzeus,” &c., in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. t “This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpamreCorrotos) to Alexander the Great.”—Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth., lib. i, 25 Sac PMS Creatas creer a a anon. ch There ane Edlbdsilidetat total er , err hee taeer ae ne PF ieae i Sige ee ee en geal liaise tke ee Sait BVT Bhs a 434. MOORE'S POEMS, a publication of this popular description—I beg of these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers—it is found upon the pianofortes of the rich and the educated—of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimu- lated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advan- tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their justice. Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs, by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country’s music; and, far from agreeing with those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manu- seripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more highly coloured * and more curiously ornamented. In these airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly dis- tinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed as haying lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a harmonised shape with new claims upon our interest and attention ; and to those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, consider- able satisfaction. Tivery voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so art- fully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distri- buting an equal portion of its sweetness to every part. T, M. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me, When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me. * The word ‘‘chromatic”’ might have been used here, without any violence to its meaning.dsbuhend, reba be os espa pia eatin teat Clee eirerr rs cy pees es Sekt eahd Me Poa heh Llabrtert-yed cae shes ees ¥ 4 a .7 of 1 4 j | | ( Sot ete het ceteris bat 4 star or two, just twinkling ou thy brow, Suffices thee Page 4359 a edeanieea bees eee ee ee ee oY Sistah pes i i . g M hi 4 een amie sebiemeens a emnemenent te siren se Base wit bey coin ac 2 ago ate Ska or pean sm a re oSIRISH MELODIES, Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee, Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me. When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright -we’ve seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me. Cit as summer closes, On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them Oh! then remember me. When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay_hearth blazing, Oh ! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee— Oh! then remember me. WAR SONG. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.* REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave, Though the days of the hero are o’er; Though lost to Mononia,* and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkoraf no more ! * Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. + Munster. t The palace of Brien, Pecans vee aed Coe Teper eo Lepr ereres Poe renee peinanbt pitta ae nent Led este rr ate Lies ae Te EDEL Le eatndokenk amie err cneatinnie tc eit sare ee eran Ses Daher aia comniied societies shit one Moke ae — fra na St ids-a ditty needed an 1 MOORES POEMS. That star of the field, which so often has pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to glory yet! Mononia! when nature embollish’d the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No, freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, *Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! Forget not our wounded companions who stood * In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr’d not, but conquer’d and died ! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain ! Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain! ERIN ! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy sons, with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise! Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin ! thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form, in Heaven’s sight, One arch of peace! *This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Daleais, tie favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest—‘‘ Let stakes,” they said, ‘‘be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.” ‘‘ Be- tween seven and eight hundred wounded men,” adds O’Halloran, “pale emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops—never was such another sight exhihited.”—Wistory of Ireland. book xii., chap. i.IRISH MELODIES. OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Ou breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour’ d his Melicg a are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head ! But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it ae Shall bright en with verdure: the grave where he sleeps And the aan that we shed, though i in secret it rolls ls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. WueEn he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign’d? Yes, weep, and however my foes : may condemn Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee! With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine: In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine! Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Ts the pride of thus dying: for thee ! n, THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS, ke Tur harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; § f Creer Peer reret yr rests rey behets firpnnlesd Se ce neat eer rrp tera bir paisa eS eer eee Pbibacac ithe iat* 2.3.3 3 MOORE'S POEMS. The chord alone that breaks at night, Tis tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To shew that still she lives. BEE Ye NOU: NERY FLY not yet, ’tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon! "Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made "Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Ob! stay,—Oh! stay, — Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh! ’tis pain To break its link so soon. ee ae repre eraras eee a Ape — Fly not yet, the fount that play’d In times of old through Ammon’s shade,* Though iey cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near; And thus should woman’s heart and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning. Oh! stay,—Oh stay,— When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here ! See eee dessa we seme tes ' en ty Sa a ee: OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT, Ou think not my spirits are always as light And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. * Solis Fons, near the Temple of Animovy,respe cronmedl. TRISH MELODTES. No, life is a waste of wearisome hours Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns! But send round the bowl, and be happy a while; May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear! The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind ! But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o’er the dream they believed; And the heart, that has slumber’d in friendship securest, Is happy indeed, if ’twas never deceived, But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth Tg in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine— That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. THoues the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Hrin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, T will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind, And I’ll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o’er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.* * In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made cting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing ocks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which im Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers, (by which the English were meant,) or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.—Walker’s Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr Walker informs us also that, about the same period, there were some harsh o glibbes or coulins (long ] measures taken against the Irish minstrels. DRS APO STINLOR CoE RS.ete es pegs oP ee ee ee ot . ee en ee re i thcnckietiieciieds nih oaths cana he nn nee aes pt Sees heed Dinca Leona tn tederer tet et tet ee ee SR De senres hateetaiandbnclinhsiesk 2 po tre tar henner eat Fein oie seratetrerssns: eee "his castes . oe gal commemenmaamme’ 4 ote sind ee 440 MOORE'S POEMS. RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORKE.* Ricw and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 3ut oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. “Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? Are Erin’s sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?” “Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm— For though they love women and golden store, Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!” On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the Green Isle. And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin’s honour, and Hrin’s pride! AS A BEAM O’ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW. As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while, — One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting ! Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead leafless branch in the summer’s bright ray The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again ! * This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote :—‘The pe inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and go of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her cloth ners History of Ireland, vol. i., book x, 2 ) es or jewels,”— ]Vay- ople were the great a ring of vernmentIRISH MELODIES. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ! + 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 ; "T'was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no—it was something more exquisite still. T'was 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! ST SENANUS AND THE LADY. ST SENANUS. “Ou! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne’er by woman’s feet be trod !” THE LADY. “© father, send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark; I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer ; Nor mine the feet, O holy saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint.” The lady’s prayer Senanus spurn’d ; The winds blew fresh, the bark return’d. * “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. + The rivers Avon and Avoco. ANCE PAM hea anid eer ere rs g E ea CSRS perenne rere te err pert Perrier rab es tials er riot)e re. bo MOORES POEMS, ren CRicnded Se. But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning’s light delay’d, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne’er had left his lonely isle. 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 tow’rd the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think ’twould lead to some bright isle of res?! TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE, WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK, T'ang 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 passion write One wrong wish there ! 3 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 shine, Pure, calm, and sweet!TRISH MELODIES, poset bala vat And as the records are Which wandering seamen keep; Led by their hidden star . Through winter's deep; So may the words I write Tell through what storms I stray, : You still the unseen light a Guiding my way! ‘Abert thet rir rine SS MERCH: <1 Ee all afl apeiy a) wae punt nope rah hey re pire rerertoriiin stand oe THE LEGACY, WHueEn in death I shall calm recline, Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it linger’d 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. EE Prarie ea When the light of my song is o’er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, tet belatetsL teat Where weary travellers love to call.* hen if some bard who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keep this cup, which is now o’erflowing, To grace your revel, when I’m at rest; bf Never, oh! never its balm bestowing : On lips that beauty hath seldom blest TAROT But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh! then my spirit around shall hover, F And hallow each drop that foams for him. HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. a How oft has the Benshee cried ! How oft has death untied ne or two harps, free to all travellers, who were * “(Tn every house was 0. to all, they excelled in music.”— 0 Hallora.. the more caressed the morepe eae iene ete trees Pe ee ee ee deacon e seer aes eee ete ne empeeres metinabnasieiasneled colar re roy ae tone are ae MOORES POEMS, Bright links that glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by love! ° Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth ! test 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,* Star after star decays, livery 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 the hero’s bier! Oh! quench’d are our beacon lights-— Thou of the hundred fights ! + Thou on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! 4 Both mute, but long as valour shineth, Or mercy’s soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin’s pride Tell how they lived and died, WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. WE may roam through this world like a child at a feast Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle, For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’'d, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. * T have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it ig 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. + This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O’Gnive, the bard of O’Neil, which is quoted in the Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433 :—*‘Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!” t Fox—“ Ultimus Romanorum !”ia Ss ro a Carr on ett Pe hed ee ne} es 9 aad ey i a Bete res a miei ttt Sarre oes eres Creer * Pretend Dntbabe pemcn Poet hesitate ere HU eRe m simi oe eis Toledo nd seit rh rors a reraan Pea ere Tree yy oer rT Siete hee er ener celeuiaen eaicel eer ere aon Goan Palette be he Mine bee See heed Peer r ect feateant one Y Press eer ea peer ar Pin teiads eereripemenr ty eee * at ow i f 3 z : ry oe ri Pe = errr oe Cee terete end sew terior bbe bis radar stint oe pit Cle igiee Rae e toes eer prmervarepeny Terris Qraatebet-limeiabe adane none: a ee by tent iy. zpoe aet H 4 ; at ; : ee / The white snow lay On the narrow pathway Whe. the lord of the valley cross’d over the oor, And many a deep print On the white snow’s tint Shew’d the track of his footstep to Eveleeu’s door. Page 445.IRISH MELODIES. In England the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden’s but carelessly watch’d after all. Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warns the touch while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roara, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye! While the daughters of Erin keep the boy Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy, The same as he look’d when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. EVELEEN’S BOWER. Ox ! weep for the hour When to Eveleen’s bower The lord of the valley with false vows came ; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o’er the maiden’s shame. The clouds past soon From the chaste old moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame ; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pass away Which that dark hour left upon Eveleer’s fame. The white snow lay On the narrow pathway When the lord of the valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow’s tint Shew’d the track of his footstep to Eiveleen’s door. Sues nr en Centr RUA re eben et K Ltr 7 bs diated a h-hh terra Ne ite ratierenertnets aaa ee ae sind Pat mer eer ee cede Re attend hare ee ee eee a eee Ser eee eee ee ee ee sestlinchipinadiadnchas tice: ae ciee e oane oee-a es é idiaadte rate ete : 446 MOORE'S POEMS. The next sun’s ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false lord came; But there’s a light above Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen’s fame. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA* SILENT, O Moyle! be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir’s lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl’d ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world ? Sadly, O Moyle! to thy winter wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away ! Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day-star, mildly sprin ging, Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above ? LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. Lut Erin remember the days of old, Hre her faithless sons betray’d her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold Which he won from her proud invader; *To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, ina note, that Fion- nuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers of Ireland till the coming of Christianity, when the firs$ sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release, TI found this fanci- ful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, begun under the direction of the late Countess of Moira. + ‘ This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as tr tro-< phies of his victory.” —Warner’s Hist. of Ireland, vol. i, book ix.IRISH MELODIES. When her kings with standard of green unfurl’d Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;* Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough Neagh’s bank as the fisherman strays;| When the clear cold eve’s declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining! Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over, Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover! COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE, Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief ‘fo simpleton sages and reasoning fools; This moment’s a flower too fair and brie T'o be wither’d and stain’d by the dust of the scheols. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But while they are fill’d from the same bright bowl, The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue Deserves not the comfort they shed o’er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side Tn the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss No! perish the hearts and the laws that try Truth, valour, or love by a standard like this! 2 * « Military orders of knights were very carly established in Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier.”—O'Halloran’s Ln- troduction, &c., parti., chap. V. + It was an old tradition in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says, that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. EE YT reer eran ey EroSede nate potas 7 P tteatiae Sera sett Sa ce OPE AA ape teh aha Ran hang ae ee ee r E ree oa son eaeaeiega eee tte ee ee ee eras Sante heh kta ve cakes : ee elo a MOORE'S POEMS. SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror’s chain! O Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o’er the waves of the west-— Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh! be the shamrock of Erin forgot, While you add to your garland the olive of Spain ! If the fame of our fathers, bequeath’d with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its deligits, If deceit be a wound and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia! our cause is the same ; And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory’s breath For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O’Donnels, whose fathers resign’d The green hills of their youth among strangers to find That repose which at home they had sigh’d for in ¥ain wills Breathe a hope that the magical flame which you light May be felt yet in Hrin, ag calm and as bright ; And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain! God prosper the cause !—oh ! it cannot but thrive While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive Its devotion to feel and its rights to maintain ; Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die! The finger of glory shall point where they lie, While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS, BELiEveE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away ! Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will,IRISH MELODIES, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ! Oh the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turn’d when he rose! _— ERIN! O ERIN! Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare’s holy shrine, “And burn’d through long ages of darkness and storm, Ts the heart that sorrows have frown’d-on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm ! Erin! O Erin! thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears ! The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising when others are set; And though slavery’s cloud o’er thy morning hath hung, The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin! O Erin! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade! Unchill’d by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind, ‘And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. Erin! O Erin! thy winter is past, - And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last | ——— ~ DRINK TO HER. Drink to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh; The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. - Oh woman’s heart was made For minstrel hands alone ! By other fingers play’d, It yields not half the tone. errata ie trata ears eats as rue ere were it hae ones Tecietbetintee deatrearecaan eae S tis punt i ‘ Titer athet " bik al ac hab eto ett re ers un ten eT ree PL are ie aot Fintan é SUPT) Tonihel tegbeisaopidces Tere So a a9 me AL AS ir preleri aie 40 mesh = phys : ror pera inaspianvreante ere ry po ph Serat eiae eet ‘ j ea Gaeta re } eee a ae beh ff HL Be had Loe we Ct 3 = - 450 MOORE'S POEMS, Then here’s to her who long : Hath waked the poet’s sigh, - ere hr The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! At beauty’s door of glass BiH _ When wealth and wit once stood, 4 Ri : ~_ They ask’d her, “which might pass?” cM : ‘She answer’d, * He who could.” Hi With golden key wealth thought By To pass—but ’twould not do: / While wit a diamond brought Which cut his bright way through } Then here ’s to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy! bg The love that seeks a home Where wealth and grandeur shines Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold mines, But oh! the poet’s love Can boast a brighter sphere; Fi Its native home’s above, t : Though woman keeps it here! +f Then drink to her who long i i Hath waked the poet's sigh) 4} - The girl who gave to song ; What gold could never buy ! naan iin tia. ie 0 et Nn pater he OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.* Ou blame not the bard if he flies to the bowers Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn’d with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o’er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior’s dart, ¢ eee os toe oe * We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wan- i dering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly; describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, ‘ were sprihkled with some ; pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness a unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wicked- ness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve-to adorn and beautify = virtue. / 3 4 { It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from : a ge Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very. expert. , SA His | ot J * 3 er EY= = F 3 3 a 4 cabratd iri. ri pseu TRISH MELODIES, And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour’d the full tide of a patriot’s heart! But alas! for his country—her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken which never would bend. O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, sa For ’tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they ’ve learn’d to betray ; ‘ Undistinguish’d they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch that would light them through dignity’s way Must be caught from the pile where their country expires! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure’s soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal; ‘Qh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down Eyery passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.* ~ But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, . Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs, : Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs ! ~ The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o’er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, . Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep ! es rs WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON’S LIGHT. WHiLe gazing on the moon’s light, A moment from her smile 1 turn’d, To look at orbs that more bright In lone and distant glory burn’d. But too far . Each proud star For me to feel its warming flame— Much more dear That mild sphere w Which near our planet smiling came; t Thus, Mary, be but thou my own— While brighter eyes unheeded play, _® See the Hymn attributed to Alezus, ‘I will carry my sword, hidden in nyttles, like Harmodius and Avistogiton,” &e. ~-+ «OF such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, aS despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together.”—IVhiston’s Theory, &e.tg tna Se ane ae esate ate aallin ena gr tact NNS tp A te eines MOORE'S POEMS. Ill love those moonlight looks ‘alone, Which bless my home and guide my way! The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meek, Jilumined all the pale flowers, Like hope that lights a mourner’s cheek. I said, (while The moon’s smile Play’d o’er a stream in dimpling bliss,) - “Nhe moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this; * And thus I thought our fortunes run, : For many a lover looks’to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me. ILL OMENS. WHEN day-light was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still ling’ring shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e’er was to press it alone. For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon! : As she Jook’d in the glass, which a woman ne’er misses, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower’s kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush’d him—he fell, alas! never to rise— “ Ah! such,” said the girl, ‘‘ is the pride of our faces, For which the soul’s innocence too often dies! ” While she stole through the garden where heart’s-ease was gr Owns, She cull’d some, and kiss’d off its night-fallen dew; Anda rose, further on, look’d so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; But while o’er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart’s-ease was lost— “ Ah! this means,” said the girl, (and she sigh’d at its meaning.) “ That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!” . * This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs some- where in Sir William Jones’s works: ‘‘The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.”* «The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the ce ages our ancestors quaffed meadh out of them,.as the Danish hunters heroi oO ‘By that sun whose light is bringing TRISH MELODIES, BEFORE THE BATTLE, By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow’s strife ; Chains or freedom, death or life— Oh! remember, life can be No charm for him who lives not free ! - Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero to his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation’s tears ! Blessed is he o’er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years -— But, oh, how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on victory’s breast ! - O’er his watch-fire’s fading embers Now the foeman’s cheek turns white While his heart that field remembers < Where we dimm’d his glory’s light! Never let him bind again A chain like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls— Oh before the evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! * ~ Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory’s sound :— But, oh, how blest that hero’s sleep, O’er whom a wondering world shall weep! AETER THE BATTLE. Niaut closed around the conqueror’s way, ~ And lightning shew’d the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still! The soldier’s hope, the patriot’s zeal, / For ever dimm’d, for ever crost— Oh who shall say what heroes feel, , When all but life and honour ’s lost! do their beverage at this day.”— Walker. ‘ B PERCE rear xr , a 1 a. eiatsig pats ha Feat seek Hipteiesteee hid | a7i a 454 _ - MOORR’S POEMS. The last sad hour of freedom’s dream And valour’s task moved slowly by, While mute they watch’d till morning’s beam Should rise and give them light to die ! There is a world where gouls are free, ~ Where tyrants taint not nature’s blisg : If death that world’s bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this? ie leah A nse leak eee YAR ee ees, ~ OH ‘TIS SWEET TO THINK. Ff OH ’tis sweet to think that where’er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear : And that, when we ’re far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near !* The heart like a tendril accustom’d to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But-will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing Tt can twine with itself and make closely its own, Then oh what pleasure, where’er we rove, ; To be doom’d to find something still that is dear, bi And-to know, when far from the lips we loye, We have but to make love to the lips We are near, “Tiwere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there, And the world’s so rich in resplendent eyes, “T'were a pity to limit one’s love to a pair, Love’s wing and the peacock’s are nearly alike, | _ They are both of them bright, but they ’re changeable too, And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, ___ It will tincture love’s plume with a different hue! Then oh what pleasure, where’er we rove, To be doom’d to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love; We have but to make love to the lips we“are near, s H * I believe it is Marmontel who says, “Quand on n'a pas ce que lon aie, i faut aimer ce quel’on a.” There are so many matter-of-fact people who take such jeur d’esprit as this defence of inconstancy to te the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themseives, and to remind them that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black, nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written an in- genious encomium of folly, \ < . De Ste reer y Se s Fah ata tee a att ‘— TRISH MELODIES, THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. t -TurouaH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay; he darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d ; Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless’d_ even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. Thy rival was honour'’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay’st hid in caves, Fler friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what f lov’d not, or turm one thought from thee. ~ They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail— Fiadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale! They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains— Oh! do not believe them—no chain could that soul subdue. Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too! ON MUSIC. Wuew through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love In days of boyhood meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain ! : Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again, Tn faded eyes that long have wept ! Like the gale that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers Is the grateful breath of song hat once was heard in happier hours ; Fill’d with balm, the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure’s dream is gone, Its memory lives in music's breath ! Music !—oh ! how faint, how weak, Languages fades before thy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak, a When thou canst*breathe her sout so well?" a i agp tre Be ie ie tale ai oo i ee ee cde all enc hr ARO a tea ea Sn ne Shas hae sete ~ tall Dg reap taireonesadiig Psy aoe ~ MOORE'S POEMS, Friendship’s balmy words may feign, Love’s are even more false than they ; Oh! ’tis only music’s strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! ——- It IS NOT THE-TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.* _ Iv is not the tear at this moment shed, : When the cold turf has just been laido’er him, That can tell how beloved was the soul that’s fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him, ‘Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; "Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept ' When all lighter griefs have faded ! Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory’s light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them } And as buried saints the grave perfume Where fadeless they ’ve long been lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet’ning bloom From the image he left there in dying ! THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea; And who often at eve through the bright billow roved To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heayen look’d with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden’s form ? Still her bosom rose fair—still her cheek smiled the same— While her sea-beauties gracefully curl’d round the frame ; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings ! Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known ‘Ro mingle love’s language with sorrow’s sad tone : TH] thow didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I’m near thee and grief when away ! * These lines were oceasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira, sf , 38ST 25 Ft;* This song W: C day, given by my friend Major Bryan, TRISH MELODIES. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Ou! the days are gone when beauty bright My heart’s chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam,. But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream ! Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream ! Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth’s past ; Though he win the wise, who frown’d before, Tosmile at last; He’ll never meet A joy so sweet Tn all his noon of fame As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blush’d to hear The one loved name! Oh! that hallow’d form is ne’er forgot, Which first love traced ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot — On memory’s waste ! "Twas odour fled As soon as shed; Tas morning’s wing’d dream 3. Twas a light that ne’er can shine again On life’s dull stream ! Oh! “twas a light that ne’er can shine again «* On life’s dull stream ! THE PRINCH’S DAY.* TuouGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers ; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form’d tobe grateful and blessed than ours! as written for a fete in honour of the Prince of Wales’s birth- at his seat in the county of Kilkenny. irre Penta Len ‘ Rae le pepe hae E oer ree Rp rniany : ney f Lape ieeeruane Trento Ge era reer eee nen rine emg : non ‘ x Sr beete hace oubtt Ld Serer eee toons ee pepe Ded tonal re tel ee Be ee or Prettd netdiiqatttag liane oe . ee ao tg naptime nee ee ss agen a ene ipl oe oie el soon San ae Yo ‘ H . ¢ ‘ A Loa TEU CBE RAL E Rist Bi i * # So e8c7 Peay a MOORE'S POEMS, But just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirit to sink— Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, fs a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; But though ’twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince’s day, Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal ! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ; _ And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, ds love from a heart that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, j Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The standard of green In front would be seen— : Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon’d this minute You’d cast ever bitter remembrance away, And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it When roused by the foe on her Prince’s day. 4 He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded In hearts which have suffer’d too much to forget; And hope shall be crown’d, and attachment rewarded, And Hrin’s gay jubilee shine out yet! ] The gem may be broke _ By many a stroke But nothing can cloud its native ray ; Hach fragment will cast A light to the last !— And thus, Hrin, my country ! though broken thou art, There ’s a lustre within thee that ne’er will decay ; A spirit that beams through each suffering part, . And now smiles at their pain on the Prince's day ! ——___. WEEP ON, WEEP ON, WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past, Your dreams of pride are o’er, The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more! In vain the hero’s heart hath bled; B The sage’s tongue hath warn’d in vain t Q, freedom! once thy flame hath fled Jt never lights again !ee IRISH MELODIES, Weep on—perhaps, in after days hey ’ll learn to love your name ; And many a deed may wake in praise That long has slept in blame! And when they tread the ruin’d isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They ‘ll wond’ring ask how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave! _ “Twas fate,” they'll say, “a wayward. fate Your web of discord wove; And while your tyrants join’d in hate, You never join’d in love! d But hearts fell off that ought to twine, And man profaned what God had given, Ti1] some were heard to curse the shrine Where others knelt to Heaven!” ———_—_— NN LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. Lespia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth ! Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon My Nora’s lid, that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises! O my Nora Creina, dear ! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina ! Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina ! Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty’s mould Presumes to stay where nature placed i! Oh! my Nora’s gown for me, -That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free : To smk or swell, as Heaven pleases ! Yes, my Nora Creina! : My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! Nature’s dress Is loveliness— The dress you wear, my Nora Creina! shal wien ose LP apelocen-nar y . eee (si be Saath tte Het) faye errs sinedinti=iate Oh who would not welcome that moment’s returning, : When passion first waked a new life through his frame, = And his soul—like the wood that grows precious in burning— - Gave out all its. sweets to love’s exquisite flame! Sey eter oye upon me spore eoaldpheinaiel FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! > Fit the bumper fair! HKvery drop we sprinkle O’er the brow of care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit’s electric flame Ne’er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O’er the brow of care Smooths away a wrinkle. — nae Sac nae ame oneness. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning’s pinions, And bring down its ray 7 From the starr’d dominions; So we, sages, sit, : And ’mid bumpers bright’ning, From the heaven of wit Draw down all its lightning ! Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine’s celestial spirit ? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us, nd hala diederiad aneasaetadao ttt de —ranapar alent aman pvicthate e The careless youth, when up To glory’s fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup, To hide the pilfer’d fire in; zs But, oh; his joy! when, round : The halls of heaven spying, Amongst the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying. Some drops were in the bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure,Les ESS Shr j coe oe 7 TRISH MELODIES, With which the sparks of soul ~ Mix’d their burning treasure ! ’. Hence the goblet’s shower Hath such spells to win us— Hence its mighty power O’er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O’er the brow of care Smooths away a wrinkle, \ —— DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. DeEaR Harp of my country !, in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee, _ And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country ! ! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ; Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Has throbb’d at.our lay, tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.rep, 320. NOTES. LALUA ROOKH. ~~. Page 4, Those insignia, of the Emperor's favour. ~-€¢One mark of honour or knighthood bestowed by the emperor is the per- mission to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and is worn in the field by all sportsmen for that end.”-—Fryer’s Travels “Those on whom the king has conferred the privilege must wear an orna- ment of jewels on the right side of the turban, surmounted by a high plume _ of the feathers of a kind of egret.”—Elphinstone’s Account of Caubul. : Page 4. Khedar Khan, &c. _“Khedar Khan,*the Khakan, or King of Turquestan, beyond the Gihon, (at the €nd of the eleventh century,) whenever he appeared abroad was pre- ceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an equal number bearing maces of gold.”—Richardson’s Dissertation pre- fixed to his Dictionary. Page 4. The gilt pine-apples. - “The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pine-apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin.”—Scott’s Notes on the Bahardanush, Page 4, The vose-coloured veils of the Princess's litter. In the poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively de- scription of “‘a company of maidens seated on camels:”— “‘They-are mounted in carriages covered with costly awnings and with rose-coloured veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem- wood. et : <‘When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddle-cloths with every mark of a voluptuous gaiety. ~ ‘Now, when they have reached the brink of yon blue gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs with a settled mansion.” Page 4. Religion, of which Aurungzebe was a muniyicent protector. This hypocritical emperor would have made a worthy associate of certain Holy Leagues. ‘‘He held the cloak of religion,” says Dow, ‘‘ between his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he owed to his own wickedness, When he was murdering and perse- cuting his brothers and their families, he was building a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for His assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest at the consecration of this temple; and madea practice of attending divine service there, in the humble dress of a fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he with the other signed warrants for the assassination of his relations.”—History of Hindostan, vol; iii,, p. 235. See also the curious letter of Aurungzebe given in the Oriental Collections, vol. 1, See erSreciceete ti ote pt segs ane a at Cs. tag * et eda tiring cea all apsaplibemananene Sa &6 484 — MOORE'S POEMS. Page 4, The diamond eyes of the idol, cc. “The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the pagoda ; one having stolen one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the idol,”—Yavernier. Page 4. Lake of Peart. ‘Tn the neighbourhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid water.”— Pennant’s Hindostan. 1 Page 4. Described by one from the Isles of the West, Le. Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador from James I. to J ehanguire, Page 5. Loves of Wamak and Ezra. . ““The Romance Wamakweazra, written in Persian verse, which contains the loves of Wamak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of Mohammed.”—Wote on the Oriental Vales. Page 5. Of the fair-haired Zal, dnd his mistress Rodahver. There is much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of Rodahver -Sitting on the bank of the river and throwing flowers into the stream in order to draw the attention of the young hero who is encamped-on the opposite side. Vide ‘‘Champion’s Translation of the Shah Naméh of Ferdousi,” Page 5. The combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon. Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. | Forthe particulars of his victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see Oriental Collections, vol. ii., p. 45, Near the city of Shiraz is an immense quadrangular monument in com- memoration of this combat, called the ‘‘ Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed,” or Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his ¢ azophylacitum Persicum, p. 127, declares to have been the most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in Persia. “Vide ‘‘ Ouseley’s Persian Miscellanies.” Page 5._ heir golden anklets. “The women of the idol, or dancing girls of the pagoda, have little golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft harmonious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices.”—Maurice’s Indian An- tiquities. The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known.” Vide “ Calmet’s Dictionary,” art. Bells Page 5. That delicious opium, ce. “ Abou-Tige, ville de la Thebaide, ot il croit beaucoup de pavot noir, dont se fait le meilleur opium.” —D’ Herbelot. Page 5. That idol of women, Crishna. “He and the three Ramas are described as youths of perfect beauty ; and the Princesses of Hindustén were all passionately in love with Crishna, who continues to this hour the darling god of the Indian women?’—Sip IV. Jones, on the gods of Greece, Italy, and India. Page 6. The veiled Prophet of Korassan. : For the real history of this impostor, whose original name was Hakem ben Ezschem, and who was called Mokanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which he always wore, vide D’Herbelot, : ; Page 6. Flowerets and fruits blush over every streain. ‘ N “ = Serr gegen actin MOORE'S POEMS. Page i7. To wliom if Lucifer, as grandams say, Refused, though atthe forfet of heaven's tight, Z'0 bend in worship, Lucifer was right. This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new creature man, was, ac ‘ cording to Mohammedan tradition, thus adopted :—“‘The earth (which God - had selected for the materials of His work) was carried into Arabia, to a place between Mecca and Tayef, where, being first kneeded by the angels, it was afterwards fashioned by God himself into a human form, avid left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as many years; the angels, in the meantime often visiting it, and Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to God’s presence, afterwards the devil) among the rest; but he, not contented with looking at it; kicked it with his foot till it rung; and knowing God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret resolution never to\acknow- ledge him as such.”’—Sale on the Koran. Page 18. Jn that best marble of whick gods are made. The material of which images of Guadma (the Birman deity) is made, is held sacred. ‘‘ Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suf- fered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the deity ready made,”— Syme’s Ava, vol. ii., p. 3876. Page 22. Within the crocodile’s stretch’d jaws to come. The humming bird is said to nun this risk for the purpose of picking the crocodile’s teeth. The same circumstance is related of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witness, by Paul Lucas, (Voyage faité en 1714.) Page 23. Some artists of Yamtcheou having been sent on previously. “The Feast of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtcheou with more magnifi- eence than anywhere else.” —Present Slate of China, p. 156. é Page 23. The origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations. “The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in the family of a famous mandarin, whose daughter walking one evening upon the shore of Ipke, fell in and was drowned; the afflicted father, with his family, ran thither, and, the better to find her, caused a great company of lanterns to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon the shores the same day ; they con- tinued the «eremony every year, every one lighted his lantern, and by de- grees ib commenced into a custom.”—Present State of China. fines Page 24, The Kohol’s jetty dye. “None of these ladies,” says Shaw, ‘“‘take themselves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged the hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead-ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, and then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids, over the ball of the eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) may be supposed to mean by venting the eyes with painting. This practice is no doubt of great antiquity ; for besides the instance already taken notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 80) to have painted her Jace, the original words are, she adjusted her eyes with the pouder of lead-o7'e.”—Shaw’s Travels. Page. 26. About the gardens, drunk with that sweet fo00e. Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lic in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs;.and that hence it is they are said to have no feet, : Page 28, As they were captives to the King of Flowers, “They deferred it till the King’ of Flowers should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage.”—Bahardanush. ; —Tere Teter errr er CTT Terre iH HITE F : ~ and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear.’—Hanway’s Travels. " proverb is, that to live happy, a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread > fock, which at-his command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of Page 29. But a light golden chain-wok round her hair, ke. ‘‘One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light” golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, gbout the bigness of a crown-piece, on whicli is impressed an Arabian prayer, Page 29. Such asthe maids of Yeed. “Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The of Yezdeecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz.”—Tavernier. ves Page 31. Blue water-lilies. ee ‘‘ Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies agitated by the breeze.” —Jayadeva. : Page 32. To muse upon the pictures that hung round. _ It has been generally supposed that the Mohammedans prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini shews that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images-than other people. From Mr Murphy’s work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into painting. Page 32. Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest. i This is not quite astronomically true. ‘‘Dr Halley,” says Kell, ‘tha: shewn that Venus is brightest when-she is about forty degrees removed from the sun; aud that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth.” Page 88. The apples of Istakhar. i “Tp the territory of Istakhar there is a kind of apple, half of which is sweet and half sour.”—Lva Houkal. 5 : « - E Page 88. The Oton-tala or Sea of Stars. ‘‘The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where there are more than a hundred springs, which sparkle like stars; whence itis called Hotun-hor, that is, the Sea of Stars.”—Description of Tibed in Pinkerton. : Page 89. And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells. ‘¢\ superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells.”— Ali Bey. : : Page 39. Of laden camels and their drivers’ songs. “Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses’ necks.” — Pitt's Account of the Mohammedans. = ‘ _ “The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when he gives over his music.”—Tavernier. Page 42. Hot as that crimson haze. Savary says—“ Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the colour of blood. Some- times whole caravans are buried in it.” : : Page 46. —the pillar’d throne. There were said to be under this throne or palace of Khosrou Parviz a nundred vaults filled with “treasures so immense, that some Mohammedan writers tell us, their Prophet, to encourage his disciples, carried them to # i the treasures of Khosrou.”—Universal History. Page 46. And they beheld an orb, ample and bright. We are not told more of this trick of the Impostor, than that it was ‘fune OR ila L ULI ae elecoat he ta ages cal 7 488 MOORE'S POEMS. machine qu’ll disoit étre la lune.” According to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb—‘ Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they say there is a well in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day.” Page 47. On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen. The tents of princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it. Vide “‘ Harmev’s Observations on Job,” Page 49. Engines of havoc in, unknown before. That they knew the secret of the Greck fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow’s Account of Mamood I, :— “When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, aud five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naptha to set the whole river on fire,” \ The Agnee aster, too, in-Indian poems, the Instrument of Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to signify the Greek Fire. Vide “ Wilks’s South of India,” voli., p. 471. The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, long before its supposed discovery in Europe, is introduced by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer who lived in the thirteenth century. ‘“‘ Bodies,” he says, “in the form of scorpions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, making a gentle noise; then, exploding, they lighten as it were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring hotribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders whatever comes in their way.” The his torian Ben Abdalla, in Speaking of Abulualid in the year of Hegira 712, says, “a fiery globe, by means of combustible matter, with a mighty noise sud denly emitted, strikes with the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel.” ¥ide the extracts from ‘‘Casiri’s Biblioth. Arab. Hispan.,” in the Appendix to “ Berrington’s Literary History of the Middle Ages,” Page 49. Discharge, as from a kindled naptha fount. See Hanway’s “Account of the Springs of Naptha at Baku” (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger, Joala Mookhee, or the Flaming Mouth,) taking fire, and running into the sea, Page 53. With burning drugs for this last hour distill’d, ‘Tl donna du poison daus le vin 4 tous ses.gens, et se jetta luiméme ensuite dans une cuve pleine de drogues brilantes et consumantes, afin qu’il ne restat rien de tous les membres de son corps, et que ceux qui restoient de sa secte puissent croire qu’il étoit monté au ciel, ce qui ne manqua pas arriver.”—D’ Herbelot. Page 56. To eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible. “The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its margoes, which are certainly the best fruit I ever tasted. The parent tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, is honoured during the fruit season by a guard of Sepoys ; and in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers were stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh supply of- mangoes for the royal table.”—M7rs @raham’s Journal of @ Residence in India. Page 59. To the Cimalaté, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented. ‘‘The Cémalaté (called by Linneeus, Ipomea) is the most beautiful of its order, both in the colour and form of its leaves and flowers; its elegant blossoms are ‘ celestial rosy red, love’s proper hue,’ and h C ave justly procured it the name of Camalatd, or Love’s Creeper.”—Sir W. Jones. : “Camalaté may also mean a mythological plant, by which all desires are granted to such as inhabit the heaven of Indra > and if ever flower was worthy of paradise, it is our charming J pomsa.”—Jo. t {aetna selnitrauaiitangN NOTES. Page 61. Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. “The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue Campac flowers only in Paradise.” —Sir IV. Jones. Page 61, JI know where the Isles of Perfume are. Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple to Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles has dis- appeared—‘‘ sunk (says Grandpré) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations.”— Voyage to the Indian Ocean. : Page 62. O’er coral banks and amber beds, &e. ¢ **Tn the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. -It is raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and = ec!> s _ NOTES. honeysuckles make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures,”"—Lady M. W. Montagu.” Page 80. Before their mirrors count their time. The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses.._ “ In Bar bary,” says-Shaw, “they are so. fond. of their looking-glasses, Which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when, after ‘the drudgery of the-day, they are obliged to go two or three miles with a “pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water.”—Travels. In other parts of Asia they wear little looking-glasses on their thumbs. - “ Hencé (and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mute intercourse of two lovers before their parents:— ‘‘He, with salute of deference due, A‘otus to his forehead prest ; She raised her mirror to his view, Then turn’d it inward to her breast.” Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. age 85. The Gheber belt that round him clung. ‘Pour se distinguer des idolatres de l'Inde, les Guebres se ceignent tous dun cordonde laine, ou de poil de chameau.”—Encyclopédie Frangotse. D’Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather. Page 85. Among the living lights of heaven. s “Ag to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire, the sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for the manifold benefits flowing from its ministerial omniscience. But they are so far from confounding the subordination of the servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire in any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind instrument, directed and governed by the imme- diate impression on it of the will of God; but they do not éven give that luminary, all glorious as it is, more than the second rank amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendaus production of divine power, the mind of man.’—Grose. The false charges brought against the religion of these people by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of the truth of this writer's remark, “‘that calumny is often added to oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it.” Page 87. That tree which grows over the tomb of Tan-Sen. «“ At Gualior is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of % incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is over-— shadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of its leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the voice.”— Journey from Agra to Ouzein, by W. Hunter, Bsq. Page 87. The awful signal of the bamboo-staf. “Ts ig usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed toa bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has destroyed’a man, The sight of these flags imparts a certain melancholy, not perbaps altogether -void of apprehension.” — Oriental Field Sports, vol. it. Page 88. Bencath the shadé some pious hands had erected, &c. “The Ficus indicu is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of Councils; the first from the idols placed under its shade; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain to supply the use : ot mirrors.” —Pennant. df 24d. Ror oinymrl i Aran i ere SRM Tene Eo agate brahee eo Toate —— 492 - MOORE'S POEMS. Page 88. The nightingale now bends her Jlight. “*The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the day-time, and from the lottiest trees at night.”—Russel’s Aleppo. Page 90. Before whose sabre's dazeling light. ‘When the bright cimiters make the eyes of our heroes wink.”—Zic ‘foallakat, Poems of Amru. f Page 91. Is rendered holy by the ranks. : In the Lettres Edifiantes, there is a different cause assigned for its name of holy. ‘In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had thosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River.” Vide Chateaubriand’s “ Beauties of Christianity.” Page 92, A rocky mountain, o’er the sea.. This mountain is my own creation, as the “stupendous chain” of which I sappose it a link does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf. Page 93. Beneath the Gheber’s lonely cliff. ‘There is an extraordinary hill in the neighbourhood, called Kohé Gubr, or the Guebre’s mountain. It rises in-the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and many mar- vellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it.” —Pottinger’s Beloochistan,. Page 93. Still did the mighty flame burn on. ** At the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distinguished By the appellation of the Darfib Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which they assert has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city; but fo: this indulgénce they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance of the Per- sian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees,each man.” Pottinger’s Beloochistan. Page 95. While on that,attar’s fires they swore. “Nul d’entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand ila pris 4 témoin cet élement terrible et vengeur.”—Zncyclopédie Frangois, Page 96. The Persian lily shines and towers, ‘A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed ficlds are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow colour,”—Rxyssel’s Aleppo. ; : : Page 99. Like Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye. “They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are full of ashes.’—Theven ot. asserted of the oranges there.— Vide Witman’s Travels in Asiatic Lurkey. Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead Sea, in that wonderful display of genius—his Third Canto of “ Childe Harold *—mapnifi- cent beyond anything, perhaps, that even je has ever written. Page 99. While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh, “The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the refraction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it had been the face of a clear and still lake.” —Pottinger. “As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapour in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until when he cometh thereto he fndeth it to be nothing.”—Koran, chap, 24. 1e€ sume is”une : _\ NOTES. Page $9. A flower that the Bidmusk has just pass’d over. ‘* A wind which prevaiis in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that name.” ‘‘The wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end of the month,” —Le Bruyn. Page 99. Where the sea-gipsies, éc. “The Biajiis are of two races ; the one is settled on Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious nation, who reckon themselves the original pos- sessors of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of sea-gipsies or itine- rant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a perpetual sum- mer on the eastern ocean, shiftine to leeward from island to island, with the > ' variations of the monsoon.”—-Dr Leyden on the Indo-Chinese Nations. Page 99: The violet sherbets. se The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, particularly — for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet sugar.” —Hasselquist. ‘eThe sherbet they most esteem, and which is drunk by the Grand Signor himself, is made of violets and sugar.” —Tavernier. Page 100. The pathetic measure of Nava. ‘‘TLast of all she took a guitar, and sung a pathetic air in the measure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent ¥ lovers.” —Persian Tales. Page l0l. Her rudy rosary. “Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, composé de 99 petites boules d’agathe, de _ jaspe, d’ambre, de corail, ou d’autre matiére precieuse. J’en ai vu un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos; il étoit de belles et grosses perles parfaites et égales, estimé trentee mille piastres.”—Toderini. Page 110. A silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree Nilica “Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable colour to silk.”— Remarks on the Husbandry of Bengal, p. 200. “‘Nilica is one of the Indian names of this flower.” —Sir W. Jones. ‘‘ The Persians call it Gul.”—Carvreri. Page 116. The death-flames that bencath him burn. Of their other Prophet Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Pruscus, Orat. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacri- fices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vide “ Patrick on Exodus,” ii. 2. Page 129. They were now not far from that forbidden river. “¢ Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden; for, by the superstition of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross that river.”— Dow’s Huidostan. Paze 129. Resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge. ‘The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never affected with sadness or melancholy; on this subject the Sheikh Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari has the follow- ing distich :— 5 nites Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell), that I may rub my hand to him. : ae iia eae ‘«(Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolicksome with tipsiness and mirth.” : ca The philosophers have discovered that the cause of this cheerfulness pro- ceeds from the influence of the star Soheil or Canopus, which rises over them every night.”—Heft Aklim, or the Seven Climates, translated by W. Ousley, Ese. ae perertaren on aR EM perurtinlinamlis shomat omer cel) Litre erate Eaten prea lambaedntbe rou sete arr eer ae . es Srpreririeuninen Tenet herein Serer ay baht oditedtg hee raed eed peatie rete tei een aes ao bake Sar Lr Peele ta ra al eld Le baad daconn dace mL enoeell pre pres ™ aei gee es a MEE bs ORG GLU Ge a ta ~ duced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticip MOORE'S POEMS, Page 180. Putting to death some hundieds of those unfortunate lizards. “The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head it mimics them when they say their prayers.” —Hasselquist. Page 180. As the Prophet said-of Damascus, “it was too delicious.” “As you enter at that Bazar without the gate at Damascus, you. see the Green Mosque, so called because it hath a steeple, faced with green glazed brieks, which render it very resplendent; It is covered at the top with a pa- vilion of the same stuff. The Turks say this Mosque was made in that place because Mohammed, being come ' so far, would not enter the town, Saying it , was too delicious.”—Zhevenot. Page 130. Would remind the Princess of that difference, ke. ‘*Waroun Al Raschid, cinquisme Khalife des Abassides, s’étant un jour brouillé avec Maridah, qu’il aimoit cependant jusqu’a l’exces, et cette mesin- intelligence ayant déja duré quelque tems commenca A sennuyer. Giafar Barmaki, son favori, qui s’en appercit, commanda A Abbas ben Abnaf, excel- lent potte de ce tems 14, de composer quelques vers sur le sujet de cette brouillerie. Ce poste executa ordre de Giafar, qui fit chanter cés vers par Moussali en presence du Khalife, et ce Prince fut tellement touché de la tendresse des vers du poate et de la douceur de la voix du musicien, qu'il alla aussitot trouver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec elle.” —D’ Herbelot, Page 133. Where the silken swing. ' = “The swing is a favourite pastime in the Hast, as promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates.”— Richardson, “The swings are adorned withfestoons ‘This pastime is accompanied with music of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the swings,”— Thevenot. / Page 139, Its fragrant blossoms over graves. “The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray and weep > at the sepulchres of the dead; and the custom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rihan, and which is our sweet basil.”’—Afaillet, Lett. 10. Page 140, Zhe tooth of the fawn-like gold, Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchymists look to as a means of making gold. ‘‘ Most of those alchymical enthusiasts thinle themselves sure of success if they could but find out the herb, which gilds the teeth and gives a yellow colour to the flesh of the sheep that eat it,” Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver colour; and adds, ‘this confirms me that which I observed in Candia; to wit, that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, which renders their teeth of a golden colour ; which, according to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the mines which are under ground,”—Dandini, Voyage to Mount Labanus. Page 141. The past, the present, and Suture of pleasure. “Whenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sounds, it is a tion of complicated nature, made up of a sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight as neither could have. pro- ation of the succeed- » are conjunctively em- percep- ing notes. Thus sense, memory, and imagination ployed.”—Gerard on Taste. ~ Madame de Staél accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we ~ derive from rhyme -—‘‘ Elle est Vimage de l’espérance et du souvenir, Un son nous fait désirer celui qui doit lui répondre, et quand Je second retentik, 4 nous rappelle celui que vient de nous echapper,”ana n NOTHS. Page 142, Tis dawn, at least that earlier dawn. “The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They account for this phenomenon ina most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that moun- tain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day-break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning.” —Scott Waring. Page 143. In his magnificent Shahmar. Tn the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back - of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the clfief beauty of the Shalimar. To deco- _ rate this spot the Mogul Princes of India have displayed an equal magnifi- cence and taste; especially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor vey made Kashmire his usual residence during the summer-months.’— Horstcr. = Page 146. And oh, if there be, ke. << Ayound the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a building of Shah Allum’s) ini: the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble—‘If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.’ 7— Franklin. Page 149. Like that painted porcelain. “The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain vessels fish and other animals, which were only perceptible when the vessel was full of some liquor. They are every now and then trying to recover the ~ art of this magical painting, but to ng purpose.”—Dunn. Page 150. More perfect than the divinest images in the House of Azor. An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be father to Abraham. “TJ have such a lovely idol as isnotto be met with.in the house of Azor.”’— —Hafiz. d Page 150. The grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains. «The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabitants has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of Beschan, and of Brama. All Cashmere is holy land, and miraculous fountains abound,” —Major Rennes Memoirs of a Map of Hindostan. ! Page 150. Whose houses roof’d with flowers. ‘On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, as a refreshing ccolness , in the summer season, when the tops of the houses, which:are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious view. of a beautifully chequered parterre.”—orster. ‘ Page150. Lanterns of the triple-coloured tortoise-shell of Pegu. < ec side + ealeiet etic eee eee as ee na dee ie eet ere tee ene es aa sewed —Grohe ee Via tm y 7 et a Es 5 Creat ea deem ene oes Sis ober Coates rer ent Cre a Pe eR tes hace tate Pee rai \ a ea) erent ee ted eran ee ruat er ecrerienr A pane = Torey orcry ed ee pa bar eae nara re Re rer eT Pu bie tid on te eT tea ee eat er “pi TTT) rer Pereerr nT erry bee yk ated oor varie i bi i Fi = 3 a = ‘ bs 3 4 A ra = = Bi : Ps 3 ri -* 3 2 Ps By 3 $ ? 53 Ps is 7 t Fi A b 3: HS r et ray ie rel ete eT Ler re) irisivortiamarter siren otha ar indent rere ea eer ete! pe its ree eT nie reer nt arte at: Reet rata has rut bebe hee by Awe ae eat te aes cone ee " ae aes aera Tt ee ee ee ee oe Satan Sle aie as i Se ptt tet ointade ate ee ea areas oer ~~ ea et ty pe bl lesa seh: 8 de an Se = pele . *Tern Py Ener y er + Por ae a Ta aiyaiatiel ww. fa bia ek es CL et ort ater eer r ye ret EL NGmtanlec et ens eee rete rusts ris i del er Clee lee et Chere: etait Erne tet cee eCaraee erst ere) aie nit lt-th shea rere Prerer HAR Ae ae Toe Sr ny eager ee nea SS ETT penser ee eet) ey Peet a Sere eed rn eet preter nates per eran te rhs ohne hey) rs « E ‘ F Fs i. = 2 ks Bs : ~ 3 i : 5 Fi : A : 4 Fi i e : Z : ° : 3 5 © PSeerrr Try Presario reer ee Lert erat art penne nite. sc titi or cna relin cna Y wr 4 ns Fm sh VO WA Thm pea eerr arene ah Pe eat ee - Be Ras erent ut ee err m eereieeoert teres!