Rhymes On The Road. Extract VI. Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented--Former Glory.--Expedition against Constantinople.--Giustinianis.--Republic.--Characteristics of the old Government.--Golden Book.--Brazen Mouths.--Spies.--Dungeons.--Present Desolation.


Mourn not for VENICE--let her rest
In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No--let us keep our tears for them,
    Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stained diadem,
    Like that which deckt this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
    Of human Rights--the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
    His mighty sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall
    Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,
    And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish every King and State
    That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill and only great
    By outrage against God and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest,
    And all those days of glory gone,
When the world's waters, east and west,
    Beneath her white-winged commerce shone;
When with her countless barks she went
    To meet the Orient Empire's might.^[1]
And her Giustinianis sent
    Their hundred heroes to that fight.

Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true,
But mourn them not--for vanisht too
    (Thanks to that Power, who soon or late,
    Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,
    The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That filled each spot, at home, abroad,
    Where the Republic's standard stood.
Desolate VENICE! when I track
Thy haughty course thro' centuries back;
Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst--
    The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
    Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;--
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing SARPI^[2] taught;--
Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath
Its shadow, rained down dews of death;^[3]--
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,
    Closed against humble Virtue's name,
But opened wide for slaves who sold
    Their native land to thee and shame;^[4]--
Thy all-pervading host of spies
    Watching o'er every glance and breath,
Till men lookt in each others' eyes,
    To read their chance of life or death;--
Thy laws that made a mart of blood,
    And legalized the assassin's knife;^[5]--
Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,
    And racks and Leads that burnt out life;--

When I review all this and see
The doom that now hath fallen on thee;
Thy nobles, towering once so proud,
Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,--
A yoke by no one grace redeemed,
Such as of old around thee beamed,
But mean and base as e'er yet galled
Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,--
I feel the moral vengeance sweet.
And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:--
"Thus perish every King and State
    "That tread the steps which VENICE trod,
"Strong but in ill and only great,
    "By outrage against man and God!"

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

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Speech On The Umbrella Question.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

For Thee Alone.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Rhymes On The Road. Extract VII. Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them.


Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope--
As one in fairy tale to whom the key
    Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly,
    If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven--
Let me a moment think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know--and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like PSAPHON'S birds^[1] speaking their master's name,
In every language syllabled by Fame?--
How all who've felt the v...

Thomas Moore

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

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

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

Intolerance, A Satire.

        "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

        ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.


Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls
Which took such freedom once with royal souls,^[1]
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,
No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sall...

Thomas Moore