Tho' Humble The Banquet.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
    Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
    And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
    Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
    Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
    Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
    Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
    And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
    Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
    To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
    Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

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

So Warmly We Met. (Hungarian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter II. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Boy Statesman. By A Tory.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Annual Pill.

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.

Invitation To Dinner. Addressed To Lord Lansdowne.

September, 1818.


Some think we bards have nothing real;
    That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,--
    (And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)--
For instance, that we have, instead
    Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,
First course--a Phoenix, at the head.
    Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,
    Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to death--
    Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit ...

Thomas Moore

They Tell Me Thou'rt The Favored Guest.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know, that without thee
The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,
    Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
    To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past
Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

Thomas Moore

The Wandering Bard.

What life like that of the bard can be--
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,--
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some playground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;--
If dimmed the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long past and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.--
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to giv...

Thomas Moore

Oh Banquet Not.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
    Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
    More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
    And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
    Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
    Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
    To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
    Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
    Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

Thomas Moore

To Miss Moore. From Norfolk, In Virginia, November, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lulled with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour,
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And blest them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I lingered from that home away,
How long the little absence seemed!
How bright the look of welcome beamed,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Bolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.
Which used so oft, so quick to come,
S...

Thomas Moore

For Thee Alone.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep,
Those eyes my light through every distant sea;
My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,
    The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee,
            To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye
    Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air,
When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly,
    The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there,
            Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore,
    While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,
Still whispering on that when some years are o'er,
    One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,
            Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour
    All e...

Thomas Moore