Horace, Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I. A Fragment.

        persico odi, puer, adparatus;
        displicent nexae philyra coronae;
        mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
            sera moretur.


TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.


Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries--
Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late--
But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

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 Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Call It By Some Better Name.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Scepticism.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Animal Magnetism.

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.

Horace, Ode I. Lib. III. A Fragment.

        odi profanum, valgus et arceo;
        favete linguis: carmina non prius
                audila Musarum sacerdos
                    virginibus puerisque canto.
        regum timendorum in proprios greges,
        reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.


1813.


I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;
    To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
    And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,
    Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
    Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

Thomas Moore

From The Hon. Henry ----, To Lady Emma ----.

Paris, March 30,1833.


You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,--as truth you will have, my sweet railer,--
    There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,--
    As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
    She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,--
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
    A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle
    As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fea...

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.


Come to our Fête and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fête and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;
When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"--
When Cits came wondering from the East
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

    Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Tho' more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face and amply spread,
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red--
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.

    Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like Harry Alexander,
...

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY---.


My dear Lady---! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout--
(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?--this moment got mine--
The "Mail-Coach Edition"--prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.

(Apropos--you'd have thought to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

    But, my dear Lady----, can't you hit on some noti...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode IV.

^[1]


Vulcan! hear your glorious task;
I did not from your labors ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No--let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But mind that, o'er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side,
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll
Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes,
And flights of Loves, in wanton play,
Wing through the air their winding way;
While Venus, from her arbor...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXII.

^[1]


Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be--
Drest for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

    Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal;
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,
Affect the still, cold sense of death?
Oh no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, wh...

Thomas Moore