by Homer
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,
A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,
New characters; the episodes are three:
A panoramic view of hell’s in training,
After the style of Virgil and of Homer,
So that my name of Epic’s no misnomer.
CCI
All these things will be specified in time,
With strict regard to Aristotle’s rules,
The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,
Which makes so many poets, and some fools:
Prose poets like blank-verse, I’m fond of rhyme,
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I’ve got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.
CCII
There’s only one slight difference between
Me and my epic brethren gone before,
And here the advantage is my own, I ween
(Not that I have not several merits more,
But this will more peculiarly be seen);
They so embellish, that ‘t is quite a bore
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
Whereas this story’s actually true.
CCIII
If any person doubt it, I appeal
To history, tradition, and to facts,
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,
To plays in five, and operas in three acts;
All these confirm my statement a good deal,
But that which more completely faith exacts
Is that myself, and several now in Seville,
Saw Juan’s last elopement with the devil.
CCIV
If ever I should condescend to prose,
I’ll write poetical commandments, which
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those
That went before; in these I shall enrich
My text with many things that no one knows,
And carry precept to the highest pitch:
I’ll call the work “Longinus o’er a Bottle,
Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.”
CCV
Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,
And Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore.
CCVI
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby’s Muse,
His Pegasus, nor anything that’s his;
Thou shalt not bear false witness like “the Blues”
(There’s one, at least, is very fond of this);
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:
This is true criticism, and you may kiss —
Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod;
But if you don’t, I’ll lay it on, by G-d!
CCVII
If any person should presume to assert
This story is not moral, first, I pray,
That they will not cry out before they’re hurt,
Then that they’ll read it o’er again, and say
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)
That this is not a moral tale, though gay;
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show
The very place where wicked people go.
CCVIII
If, after all, there should be some so blind
To their own good this warning to despise,
Led by some tortuosity of mind,
Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,
And cry that they “the moral cannot find,”
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;
Should captains the remark, or critics, make,
They also lie too — under a mistake.
CCIX
The public approbation I expect,
And beg they’ll take my word about the moral,
Which I with their amusement will connect
(So children cutting teeth receive a coral);
Meantime, they’ll doubtless please to recollect
My epical pretensions to the laurel:
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I’ve bribed my grandmother’s review — the British.
CCX
I sent it in a letter to the Editor,
Who thank’d me duly by return of post —
I’m for a handsome article his creditor;
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
And break a promise after having made it her,
Denying the receipt of what it cost,
And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
All I can say is — that he had the money.
CCXI
I think that with this holy new alliance
I may ensure the public, and defy
All other magazines of art or science,
Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I
Have not essay’d to multiply their clients,
Because they tell me ‘t were in vain to try,
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.
CCXII
“Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventâ
Consule Planco,” Horace said, and so
Say I; by which quotation there is meant a
Hint that some six or seven good years ago
(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)
I was most ready to return a blow,
And would not brook at all this sort of thing
In my hot youth — when George the Third was King.
CCXIII
But now at thirty years my hair is grey
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day) —
My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
Have squander’d my whole summer while ‘t was May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem’d, my soul invincible.
CCXIV
No more — no more — Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee:
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! ‘t was not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
CCXV
No more — no more — Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgment,
Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.
CCXVI
My days of love are over; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before, —
In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
CCXVII
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O’er wh
ich reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken,
“Time is, Time was, Time’s past:” — a chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes —
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
CCXVIII
What is the end of Fame? ‘t is but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their “midnight taper,”
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
CCXIX
What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt’s King
Cheops erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid:
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
CCXX
But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, “Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o’er again— ‘t would pass —
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.”
CCXXI
But for the present, gentle reader! and
Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that’s I —
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
And so “Your humble servant, and good-b’ye!”
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample —
‘T were well if others follow’d my example.
CCXXII
“Go, little book, from this my solitude!
I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The world will find thee after many days.”
When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood,
I can’t help putting in my claim to praise —
The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line:
For God’s sake, reader! take them not for mine.
Nov. 1, 1818
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Thomas Moore
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Light of Other Days
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
OFT in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears 5
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken! 10
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all 15
The friends so link’d together
I’ve seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone 20
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night 25
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Pro Patria Mori
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign’d!
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 5
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine: 10
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 15
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Meeting of the Waters
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o’er the scene 5
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no — it was something more exquisite still.
’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 10
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, 15
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Last Rose of Summer
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
‘TIS the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred, 5
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem; 10
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden 15
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away. 20
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
THE HARP that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days, 5
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells: 10
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 15
To show that still she lives.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
A Canadian Boat-Song
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We’ll sing at St. Anne’s our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 5
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we’ll rest our weary oar. 10
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past!
Utawas’ tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, 15
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight’s past!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order