Poems From The Epicurean

(1827.)

THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion, ever moves and lives, Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts-- Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds Of lotos flowers that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour, While haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast; But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--Osiris sips The same in his halls below; And the same he gives, to cool the lips Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup--the water within Is fresh from Lethe's stream; 'Twill make the past, with all its sin, And all its pain and sorrows, seem Like a long forgotten dream; The pleasure, whose charms Are steeped in woe; The knowledge, that harms The soul to know;

The hope, that bright As the lake of the waste, Allures the sight And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds Its innocent wreath, Where the serpent winds In venom beneath!--

All that of evil or false, by thee Hath ever been known or seen, Shalt melt away in this cup, and be Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup--when Isis led Her boy of old to the beaming sky, She mingled a draught divine and said.-- "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee. Heir of that boundless heaven on high, Though frail and fallen and lost thou be, "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When heaven was still the spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not. But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of the flower, And the greeting mute Of thy boughs' salute To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree! How the traveller blesses thee When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows. Saying, "Come, rest thee here." O Abyssinian tree! Thus bow thy head to me!

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet, whose playful and happy jeu d'esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

Sloperton Cottage,

November 1881

Lord Francis Egerton.