THOMAS
MOORE AT ST. ANNES. (12)
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I.
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On these swift waters borne along,
A Poet from the farther shore
Framed as he went his solemn song,
And set it by the boatman’s oar. |
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II. |
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It was his being law to sing
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From morning dawn to evening light—
Like nature’s choristers, his wing
And voice were only still’d at night. |
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III. |
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Nor did all nights bring him repose:
For, by the moon’s auspicious ray,
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Like Philomela on her rose,
His song eclipsed the songs of day. |
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IV. |
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He came a stranger summer bird,
And quickly passed; but as he flew
Our river’s glorious song he heard,
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His tongue was loos’d—he warbled too. [Page 42] |
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V. |
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And, mark the moral, ye who dream
To be the Poets of the land:
He nowhere found a nobler theme
Than you, ye favor’d, have at hand.
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VI. |
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Not in the storied summer Isles,
Not ’mid the classic Cyclades,
Not where the Persian Sun-God smiles,
Found he more fitting theme than these.
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VII. |
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So, while our boat glides swift along, |
25 |
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Behold! from shore there looketh forth
The tree that bears the fruit of song—
The Laurel tree that loves the North. [Page 43] |
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