Thomas Moore

When ’midst the gay I meet That gentle smile of thine, Though still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine: But when to me alone Your secret tears you show, Oh, then I feel those tears my own, And claim them while they flow. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me. The snow on Jura’s steep Can smile in many a beam, Yet still in chains of coldness sleep, How bright soe’er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray, Whose touch is fire, appears, Oh, then the smile is warm’d away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

The time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turn’d away, Oh! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas! th’ endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

Oft, in the stilly night, Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm’d and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link’d together, I’ve seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.

From The Fire-worshippers “How sweetly,” said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood— “How sweetly does the moon-beam 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 bow’rs, Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a 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 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 heav’nly, but ’tis past! Oh! ever thus, from childhood’s hour, I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov’d a tree or flow’r, But ’twas the first to fade away. I never nurs’d a dear gazelle To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die! Now too—the joy most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,— Oh misery! must I lose that too? Yet go—on peril’s brink we meet;— Those frightful rocks—that treach’rous sea— No, never come again—though sweet, Though heav’n, it may be death to thee. Farewell—and blessings on thy way, Where’er thou goest, beloved stranger! Better to sit and watch that ray, And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me, and in danger!”

Written at Norfolk, in Virginia “They 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, 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 breath’d 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, 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!