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Would it were worthier! but I am not OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN now

BEAUTY'S BLOOM That which I have been — and


visions Alit

Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, Less palpably before me — and the glow

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering,

But on thy turf shall roses rear faint, and low.

Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender

gloom : Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been

And oft by yon blue gushing stream A sound which makes us linger; — yet – Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, farewell !

And feed deep thought with many a Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the


And lingering pause and lightly tread; Which is his last, if in your memories Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d dwell

the dead! A thought which once was his, if on ye swell

Away! we know that tears are vain, A single recollection, not in vain

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop- Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? Farewell! with him alone may rest the

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, pain,

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain.


THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on

the fold,
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY And his cohorts were gleaming in purple

and gold; She walks in beauty, like the night

And the sheen of their spears was like stars Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

on the sea, And all that's best of dark and bright When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Galilee. Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

is green,

That host with their banners at sunset One shade the more, one ray the less,

were seen: Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn Which waves in every raven tress,

hath blown, Or softly lightens o'er her face;

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and Where thoughts serenely sweet express

strown. How pure, how dear their dwellingplace.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings

on the blast, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, And breathed in the face of the foe as he So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

pass'd; The smiles that win, the tints that glow, And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly But tell of days in goodness spent,

and chill, A mind at peace with all below,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for A heart whose love is innocent!

ever grew still !



And there lay the steed with his nostril all ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY wide,

THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, And the foam of his gasping lay white on

Since others it hath ceased to move : the turf,

Yet, though I cannot be beloved, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating

Still let me love! surf.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; And there lay the rider distorted and

The worm, the canker, and the grief pale,

Are mine alone! With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail :

The fire that on my bosom preys And the tents were all silent, the banners

Is lone as some volcanic isle; alone,

No torch is kindled at its blaze The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

A funeral pile. And the widows of Ashur are loud in The hope, the fear, the jealous care, their wail,

The exalted portion of the pain And the idols are broke in the temple of And power of love, I cannot share, Baal;

But wear the chain. And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

But 'tis not thus - and 'tis not here – Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Such thoughts should shake my soul, Lord!

nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.
My boat is on the shore,

The sword, the banner, and the field,
And my bark is on the sea;

Glory and Greece, around me see ! But, before I go, Tom Moore,

The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Here's a double health to thee.

Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece she is awake!) Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate;

Awake, my spirit! Think through

whom And, whatever sky's above me,

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, Here's a heart for every fate.

And then strike home! Though the ocean roar around me,

Tread those reviving passions down, Yet it still shall bear me on ;

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee Though a desert should surround me,

Indifferent should the smile or frown It hath springs that may be won.

Of beauty be, Were't the last drop in the well,

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? As I gasp'd upon the brink,

The land of honourable death Ere my fainting spirit fell,

Is here: up to the field, and give 'Tis to thee that I would drink.

Away thy breath! With that water, as this wine,

Seek out — less often sought than found -The libation I would pour

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Should be — peace with thine and mine, Then look around, and choose thy ground, And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

And take thy rest.


We could not move a single pace,

We could not see each other's face, My hair is grey, but not with years, But with that pale and livid light Nor grew it white

That made us strangers in our sight: In a single night,

And thus together -- yet apart,
As men's have grown from sudden fears; Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart,
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
But rusted with a vile repose,

Of the pure elements of earth,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, To hearken to each other's speech,
And mine has been the fate of those

And each turn comforter to each
To whom the goodly earth and air

With some new hope, or legend old,
Are bann'd, and barr'd - forbidden fare; Or song heroically bold;
But this was for my father's faith

But even these at length grew cold.
I suffer'd chains and courted death; Our voices took a dreary tone,
That father perish'd at the stake

An echo of the dungeon stone,
For tenets he would not forsake;

A grating sound, not full and free, And for the same his lineal race

As they of yore were wont to be; In darkness found a dwelling-place;

It might be fancy, but to me We were seven who now are one, They never sounded like our own. Six in youth, and one in

age, Finish'd as they had begun,

I was the eldest of the three, Proud of Persecution's rage;

And to uphold and cheer the rest One in fire, and two in field

I ought to do — and did


best Their belief with blood have seal’d,

And each did well in his degree. Dying as their father died,

The youngest, whom my father loved, For the God their foes denied;

Because our mother's brow was given Three were in a dungeon cast,

To him, with eyes as blue as heaven Of whom this wreck is left the last.

For him my soul was sorely moved :

And truly might it be distress'd
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, To see such bird in such a nest;
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, For he was beautiful as day
There are seven columns, massy and gray, (When day was beautiful to me
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,

As to young eagles, being free) -
A sunbeam which hath lost its way

A polar day, which will not see And through the crevice and the cleft A sunset till its summer's gone, Of the thick wall is fallen and left;

Its sleepless summer of long light, Creeping o'er the floor so damp,

The snow-clad offspring of the sun : Like a marsh's meteor lamp:

And thus he was as pure and bright, And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in his natural spirit gay, And in each ring there is a chain; With tears for nought but others' ills, That iron is a cankering thing,

And then they flow'd like mountain rills, For in these limbs its teeth remain, Unless he could assuage the woe With marks that will not wear away, Which he abhorr’d to view below. Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes,

The other was as pure of mind,
Which have not seen the sun so rise

But form’d to combat with his kind;
I cannot count them o'er,

Strong in his frame, and of a mood
I lost their long and heavy score,

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, When my last brother droop'd and died,

And perish'd in the foremost rank

With joy: - but not in chains to pine: And I lay living by his side.

His spirit wither'd with their clank, They chain'd us each to a column stone, I saw it silently decline And we were three yet, each alone, And so perchance in sooth did mine:

For years

But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf;

To him his dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.

And scoop'd for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave,
I begg'd them as a boon to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine – it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer —
They coldly laugh’d, and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument !

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls :
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,

Which round about the wave inthrals:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made and like a living grave
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay,
We heard it ripple night and day;

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were

high And wanton in the happy sky;

And then a very rock hath rock'd,

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.

I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter's fare,
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moisten’d many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow men
Like brutes within an iron den;
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth? — he died
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand - nor dead,
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlock'd his chain,

But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherish'd since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyr'd father's dearest thought
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired -
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was wither’d on the stalk away.
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood :
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread;
But these were horrors this was woe
Unmix'd with such -- but sure and slow :
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender, kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray;
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright,
And not a word of murmur, not
A groan o'er his untimely lot, -
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,

For I was sunk in silence lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less :
I listen'd, but I could not hear;
I call’d, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;
I call’d, and thought I heard a sound
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
And rush'd to him : - I found him not,
I only stirr'd in this black spot,
I only lived, I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill ;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive
A frantic feeling, when we know
That what we love shall ne'er be so.

I know not why

I could not die,
I had no earthly hope but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.

A light broke in upon my brain,

It was the carol of a bird ;
It ceased, and then it came again,

The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track ;
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
But through the crevice where it came
The bird was perch'd, as fond and

And tamer than upon the tree;
A lovely bird, with azure wings,
And song that said a thousand things,

And seem'd to say them all for me!
I never saw its like before,
I ne'er shall see its likeness more:
It seem'd like me to want a mate,
And was not half so desolate,
And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon's brink,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free,

Or broke its cage to perch on mine,
But knowing well captivity,
Sweet bird! I could not wish for

thine! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise ; For Heaven forgive that thought! the

Which made me both to weep and smile

sometimes deem'd that it might be
My brother's soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew,
And then 'twas mortal well I knew,
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice so doubly lone,
Lone as the corse within its shroud,
Lone as a solitary cloud,

A single cloud on a sunny day,
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear

When skies are blue, and earth is gay.


What next befell me then and there

I know not well I never knew First came the loss of light, and air,

And then of darkness too: I had no thought, no feeling Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray; It was not night, it was not day; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness without a place; There were no stars, no earth, no time, No check, no change, no good, no crime, But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless !

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