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 track
Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined,
Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,
Gathered around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appalled to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!--
No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might--
To waste the hour of action in dispute,
And coolly plan how freedom's boughs should shoot,
When your Invader's axe was at the root!
No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws,
Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee and how deeply hate
All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate--
Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,
I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,
NAPOLEON, NERO--ay, no matter whom--
To snatch my country from that damning doom,
That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits--
A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!

True, he was false--despotic--all you please--
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties--
Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But raised the hopes of men--as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky--
To dash them down again more shatteringly!
All this I own--but still

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

There's Something Strange. A Buffalo Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Child's Song. From A Masque.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh Banquet Not.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

To Thomas Hume, Esq., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.


'Tis evening now; beneath the western star
Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar,
And fills the ears of some consenting she
With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come,
Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home;
Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms,
And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

    In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,
Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"^[1]
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow,
And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:^[2]--
This embryo capital, where Fancy sees
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees;
Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn
With shrines unbu...

Thomas Moore

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 ag...

Thomas Moore

Remonstrance.

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. 


What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name--
    Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run
The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
    As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,
    Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal
    Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
    From the mighty arena, where all that is grand
And devoted and pure and adorning in life,
    'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?
<...

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