Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS; TO HER LOVER, by THOMAS MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS; TO HER LOVER, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray
Last Line: Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams!
Alternate Author Name(s): Little, Thomas
Subject(s): Greece; Greeks


WAS it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
I linger'd still, in all the murmuring rest,
The languor of a soul too richly blest!
Upon my breath the sigh yet faintly hung;
Thy name yet died in whispers o'er my tongue;
I heard thy lyre, which thou hadst left behind,
In amorous converse with the breathing wind;
Quick to my heart I press'd the shell divine,
And, with a lip yet glowing warm from thine,
I kiss'd its every chord, while every kiss
Shed o'er the chord some dewy print of bliss.
Then soft to thee I touch'd the fervid lyre.
Which told such melodies, such notes of fire,
As none but chords, that drank the burning dews
Of kisses dear as ours, could e'er diffuse!
O love! how blissful is the bland repose,
That soothing follows upon rapture's close,
Like a soft twilight, o'er the mind to shed
Mild melting traces of the transport fled!

While thus I lay, in this voluptuous calm,
A drowsy languor steep'd my eyes in balm,
Upon my lap the lyre in murmurs fell,
While, faintly wandering o'er its silver shell,
My fingers soon their own sweet requiem play'd,
And slept in music which themselves had made!
Then, then, my Theon, what a heavenly dream!
I saw two spirits, on the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, descending from above,
And gliding to my bower with looks of love,
Like the young genii, who repose their wings
All day in Amatha's luxurious springs,
And rise at midnight from the tepid rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill!
Soft o'er my brow, which kindled with their sighs,
Awhile they play'd; then gliding through my eyes,
(Where the bright babies, for a moment, hung,
Like those thy lip hath kiss'd, thy lyre hath sung,)
To that dim mansion of my breast they stole,
Where, wreathed in blisses, lay my captive soul.
Swift at their touch dissolved the ties that clung
So sweetly round her, and aloft she sprung!
Exulting guides, the little genii flew
Through paths of light, refresh'd with starry dew,
And fann'd by airs of that ambrosial breath,
On which the free soul banquets after death!

Thou know'st, my love, beyond our clouded skies,
As bards have dream'd, the spirits' kingdom lies.
Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls,
Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallow'd souls,
Whom life hath wearied in its race of hours
Repose for ever in unfading bowers!
That very orb, whose solitary light
So often guides thee to my arms at night,
Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,
Floating in splendour through those seas above!
Thither, I thought, we wing'd our airy way,
Mild o'er its valleys stream'd a silvery day,
While, all around, on lily beds of rest,
Reclined the spirits of the immortal blest!
Oh! there I met those few congenial maids,
Whom love hath warm'd, in philosophic shades;
There still Leontium, on her sage's breast,
Found lore and love, was tutor'd and caress'd;
And there the twine of Pythia's gentle arms
Repaid the zeal which deified her charms!
The Attic Master, in Aspasia's eyes
Forgot the toil of less endearing ties;
While fair Theano, innocently fair,
Play'd with the ringlets of her Samian's hair,
Who, fix'd by love, at length was all her own,
And pass'd his spirit through her lips alone!

O Samian sage! whate'er thy glowing thought
Of mystic Numbers so divinely wrought;
The One that's form'd of Two who dearly love,
Is the best number heaven can boast above!

But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill'd,
When near a fount, which o'er the vale distill'd,
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine,
That, oh! -- 'twas but fidelity in me,
To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee!
No aid of words the unbodied soul requires.
To waft a wish or embassy desires;
But, by a throb to spirits only given,
By a mute impulse only felt in heaven,
Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies
From soul to soul the glanced idea flies!

We met -- like thee the youthful vision smiled!
But not like thee, when, passionately wild,
Thou wak'st the slumbering blushes of my cheek
By looking things thyself would blush to speak!
No! 'twas the tender, intellectual smile,
Flush'd with the past, and yet serene the while,
Of that delicious hour, when, glowing yet,
Thou yield'st to nature with a fond regret,
And thy soul, waking from its wilder'd dream,
Lights in thine eye a mellower, chaster beam!

O my beloved! how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet!
Th' Elean god, whose faithful waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have deck'd their billow, as an offering meet
To pour at Arethusa's crystal feet!
Think, when he mingles with his fountain-bride,
What perfect rapture thrills the blended tide!
Each melts in each, till one pervading kiss
Confound their currents in a sea of bliss!
'Twas thus --
But, Theon, 'tis a weary theme,
And thou delight'st not in my lingering dream.
Oh! that our lips were at this moment near,
And I would kiss thee into patience, dear!
And make thee smile at all the magic tales
Of starlight bowers and planetary vales,
Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love,
In slumber's loom hath exquisitely wove.
But no; no more -- soon as to-morrow's ray
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away,
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy burning breast,
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest;
Then if too weak, too cold the vision seems,
Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams!





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