Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER, by THOMAS MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh! Lost, for ever lost!- no more
Last Line: To memory so divinely dear!
Alternate Author Name(s): Little, Thomas
Subject(s): Mothers


OH! lost, for ever lost! -- no more
Shall vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
To hymn the fading fires of day!
No more to Tempe's distant vale
In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
To bear the mystic chaplets home!
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
By nature warm'd and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
The breathings of a deity!
Guide of my heart! to memory true,
Thy looks, thy words are still my own --
I see thee raising from the dew,
Some laurel, by the wind o'erthrown,
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
Was planted for a dome divine,
And though it weep in languor now,
Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!
Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,
Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,
A viewless hand shall cull it thence,
To bloom immortal in the skies!"

Thy words had such a melting flow,
And spoke of truth so sweetly well,
They dropp'd like heaven's serenest snow,
And all was brightness where they fell!
Fond soother of my infant tear!
Fond sharer of my infant joy!
Is not thy shade still lingering here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
And oh! as oft, at close of day
When, meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awaked the choral lay,
And danced around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,
My foot the lightest o'er the green:
So still, each little grace to mould,
Around my form thine eyes are shed,
Arranging every snowy fold,
And guiding every mazy tread!
And when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,
And weds them into harmony!
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave
Shall never drop its silvery tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so divinely dear!





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