Epitaph On A Tuft-Hunter.

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 vulgar company.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

To Thomas Hume, Esq., M. D.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter II.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tell Her, Oh, Tell Her.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Call It By Some Better Name.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Irish Slave.

^[1]


I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
    "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
    And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
    Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
    That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
    And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
    "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
    "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
    "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,

Thomas Moore

Lines On The Death Of Sheridan.

        principibus placuisse viris!
        --HORAT.


Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear
    Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career.
    And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:--

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
    By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;--
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
    Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
    And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
    The relics of him who died--friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array
    Of one whom they...

Thomas Moore

Epitaph I. On Charles Earl Of Dorset, In The Church Of Withyam, In Sussex.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Blest courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

Alexander Pope

Lines On The Death Of Mr. Perceval.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
    Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
    And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
    And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
    And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
    'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was--and, content to be good,
    Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move,
    His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blest with ...

Thomas Moore

Epistle To Robert Earl Of Oxford And Earl Mortimer.

Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung,
Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Blest in each science, blest in every strain!
Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear--in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of interest, f...

Alexander Pope

Verses To The Poet Crabbe's Inkstand.

^[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)


All, as he left it!--even the pen,
    So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
    Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
    A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
    Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman
    Found in some vanished wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
    Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone
    Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
    Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
    Rest on the enchanter's broke...

Thomas Moore