LORD THURLOW.

["Poems on Several Occasions." 1813.]

SINCE all I see, (and all I see is fair,)

But springs from Jove, who is the source of all,

And so of kindred with Olympus' air,

But images what thence divine we call; No fear there is, that, when my thread is spun, My golden thread, for love appoints it so, My heart with this soft passion should have done, Which ending, in Olympus would be woe:

For since this beauty is but type of thee,

And Nature but the mirror of thy love, Which oft the Angels may descend to see,

And find well pictured from their bliss above,

Thy memory in that immortal air,

All sights will keep, as in it's budding, fair.

Thy love is to my heart a boundless store

Of soft affection, which to love is near,

And those, that I have never prized before,

For thy dear sake are now to me most dear; Thy kindred, and thy friends, whose matchless worth, As lost in darkness, were to me unknown,

By pure example light my path on Earth,

And by their virtues my defects are shown: Then may I so improve the boundless grace,

Which from the marble air to me is sent,

That in my soul pure honour may have place,
And virtue her neglected stores augment:

For perfect in thyself thou art I see,
But yet more perfect in thy company.

I think you are the prophet of the Spring,
Or Spring doth on your gentle feet attend,
For ever do I note the Zephyr's wing,
When towards me your precious feet you bend :
The air is then impregnate with delight,
And Nature does her brightest sweets display,
But ah! too soon you wander from my sight,
And sorrow must usurp upon my day:

And yet the thought, that I have seen you then,
Supports me, till the morrow shall appear,

Again to seek you in the walks of men,
That are the star and Phoebus of my sphere:
So do I live in all vicissitude

Of joy and grief, of evil and of good.

I called you, and too well these names you grace,

The World's divine, and merest paragon,

The violet, to whom all plants are base,

The star, that is but joy to look upon:

And are you not without compare the gem,
That kings would in their thronéd pride possess,
To sparkle in the blazing diadem,

And the fair eyes of their true subjects bless?
Your title, and your style must be as great,
As is th' excelling beauty of your cheek,
Nor can I without fault one word abate,
Since all is less, than can your glory speak;
For let Olympus with your face compare,
And men shall own, that you are only fair.

THOMAS MOORE.

1779-1852.

["Irish Melodies." 1813-14.]

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

BELIEVE 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,

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 can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay

Would steal before the steps of Time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary! Yet still thy features wore that light,

Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er looked more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that, which charmed all other eyes,
Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia 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 't is 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 it.

O, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness,

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora's heart

In safer slumbers Love reposes;

Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O, my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.