Lines On The Entry Of The Austrians Into Naples, 1821.

carbone notati.


Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
    From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
    Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,
    Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er--
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
    From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands
    Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
    Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
    Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven
    They had once within reach--that they might have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
    Ever rose 'bove the zero of Castlereagh's heart.
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
    And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed
    The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,
    But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
    FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
    Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life
    Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
    Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then,
    You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
    And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout
    Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"--
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
    And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
    Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
    Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

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

Row Gently Here. (Venetian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter X. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rhymes On The Road. Extract III. Geneva.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter IV. From Phelim Connor To ----

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there^[1]--
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!--let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your .            .            .            .^[2]
            .            .            .            .            .
Still hope a...

Thomas Moore

Ode On Venice[234]

I.

Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do? - anything but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers - as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets.
Oh! agony - that centuries should reap
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years^[235]
Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meet...

George Gordon Byron

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XIII. Rome.

Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's Speech.


'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words
    Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed,
And see once more the Forum shine with swords
    In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed--
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day
    For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be,
Short as it was, worth ages past away
    In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon
Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune
The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell
From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell--
The s...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XI. From Phelim Connor To ----.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate--
A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,
And own no power but of the Nation's choice!
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye.
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,^[1]
Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again--
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to tra...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VII. From Phelim Connor To--.

Before we sketch the Present--let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;--
When, loosed as if by magic from a chain
That seemed like Fate's the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;--
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sighed for justice--liberty--repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;--Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in ...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract II. Geneva.

FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.

A FRAGMENT.


Yes--if there yet live some of those,
Who, when this small Republic rose,
Quick as a startled hive of bees,
Against her leaguering enemies--^[1]
When, as the Royal Satrap shook
    His well-known fetters at her gates,
Even wives and mothers armed and took
    Their stations by their sons and mates;
And on these walls there stood--yet, no,
    Shame to the traitors--would have stood
As firm a band as e'er let flow
    At Freedom's base their sacred blood;
If those yet live, who on that night
When all were watching, girt for fight,
Stole like the creeping of a pest
From rank to rank, from breast to breast,
Filling the weak, the old with fears,
Turning the heroine's zea...

Thomas Moore