Thomas Moore

Though sorrow long has worn my heart;
    Though every day I've, counted o'er
Hath brought a new and, quickening smart
    To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft
    Of tender links by nature tied;
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;
    Though friends betrayed and foes belied;

I still had hopes--for hope will stay
    After the sunset of delight;
So like the star which ushers day,
    We scarce can think it heralds night!--

I hoped that, after all its strife,
    My weary heart at length should rest.
And, feinting from the waves of life,
    Find harbor in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,
    Was bright with honor's purest ray;
He was the dearest, gentlest you...

        monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.


Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
    And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
    And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;--
Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
    I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:
Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,
    That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take every morsel of scrip in the land
    But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
    To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that in due course of nature
    About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I sta...

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse--
"Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"--
The Prince's Purse! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Prince's Ridicule.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,
    "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?"
"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
    "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look
    "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."--
"We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book.
    "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!"

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:--
Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream--
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning from a violet bed.
"Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"--
"A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU--
"A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
"'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,
"The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
"The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,
"And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brai...

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,--
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,
Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private--
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.
Not Birmingham's...

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph o...

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London,
You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane,
No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read
What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said--
That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet,
Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street,
Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces,
Didn’t burst out a laughing in each other's faces.
What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago,
Even we in the present times pretty well know;
Having soothsayers also, who--sooth to say, John--
Are no better in some points than those of days gone,
And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me),
Might laugh in their sleeves, too--all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way--my intention being chiefly

        "Ahi, mio Ben!"
        --METASTASIO.[3]


What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown?
Is this the new go?--kick a man when he's down!
When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then--
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN!
"Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim--
CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified--BELCHER spits flame--
And MOLYNEUX--ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!"

Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied
'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side:
When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating)
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.
But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and loti...

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!
    How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights!
Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,
    Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller
    Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion,
No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller.
    Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please
    With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,
We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,
    And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;--farewell to the zest
    Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip;
Which makes still the cruellest...

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
    Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one who ne'er preferred
    A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,
    Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a star he'd quit,
    And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,
    He took of course to peers' relations;
And rather than not sport a Lord
    Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em
    With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;
And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum
    Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
    For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
    Than saved in vulga...

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1]
    And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,
    Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
    Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
    The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
    The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
    Shining through sorrow's stream,
    Saddening through pleasure's beam,
    Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
        Weep while they rise.

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
    Till, like the rainbow's light,
    Thy various tints unite,
    And form in heaven's sight
        One arch of peace!

        Oh! weep for the hour,
        When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
        The moon hid her light
        From the heavens that night.
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

        The clouds past soon
        From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame:
        But none will see the day,
        When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

        The white snow lay
        On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
        And many a deep print
        On the white snow's tint
Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

        The next sun's ray
        Soon melted away<...

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds
Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;
Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails--
As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past
More fleet than usual since we parted...

Wednesday.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now--
Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!--incog. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder--
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife--
"Fine weather," says he--to which I, who must prate,
Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable...

I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess--
    As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess--
    It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,
A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1]
Which shone by moonlight--as the tale is--
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all
    And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
    Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
    Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
    At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy--and ...