Ode To The Sublime Porte.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!
    And oh! above all I admire that Decree,
In which thou command'st that all she politicians
    Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster--
    A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,
Who talks with a lisp of "the last new Westminster,"
    And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,
    How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;--
And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is
    In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing--
    ART. 1.--"On the Needle's variations," by Pl--ce;^[1]
    ART. 2.--By her Favorite Funblank^[2]--"so amusing!
    "Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a Law case."

ART. 3.--"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own--
    (Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-
ART. 4.--"Upon Honesty," author unknown;--
    ART. 5.--(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag
    And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call--
Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,
    I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head
    From the watery bottom, her clack to renew--
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,
    I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

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

Poor Wounded Heart

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How To Write By Proxy.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Insurrection Of The Papers. A Dream.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

War Song. Remember The Glories Of Brien The Brave.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To The Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
"Demoralized" metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The level of obedience slopes
Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam!^[1]
Where the poor Palace changes masters
    Quicker than a snake its skin,
And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,
    While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:--
But where, in every change, no doubt,
    One special good your Lordship traces,--
That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers sti...

Thomas Moore

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

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.


DEAR SIR--
    I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book,
Wherein--as plain as man can speak.
Whose English is half modern Greek--
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade;--
In short until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself.

    All that can well be understood
In this said Book is vastly good;
And as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

    But to your work's immortal credit
The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. C...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, To Her Cousin, Miss Kitty ----.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
    While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
    To wake to light each diamond eye,
    And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain--
    THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!--
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
    The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
    They'll thunder loud and long as HE!

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
    Young fires--

    I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,^[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

Thomas Moore

The Chain-Pier, Brighton; A Sketch.

Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea!
Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays:
Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm,
Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace!
Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast
Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside
(Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest)
Into a gentle ripple on the shore.

All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man,
His surest solace in this world of woe;
How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze
Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek,
And turn its rigid markings to a smile.
England may well be proud of scenes like this;
The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER!

Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea,
The graceful wonder of this wondrous age;
I...

Thomas Gent

Parody Of A Celebrated Letter.

^[1]


At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs are decided--
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion)--
For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question,
I th...

Thomas Moore