To Lady Jersey. On Being Asked To Write Something In Her Album.

Written at Middleton.


Oh albums, albums, how I dread
    Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
    And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,
    The blushless blues, who, day and night,
Like duns in doorways, take their stand,
To waylay bards, with book in hand,
    Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain,
    That o'er me at this instant come,
When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,
Knocks at the portal of my brain,
    And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

November, 1828.

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

But Who Shall See. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter II.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tout Pour La Tripe.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Rev. Charles Overton, Curate Of Romaldkirk.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Written In The Blank Leaf Of A Lady's Commonplace Book.

Here is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet hath been,
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there!

Thomas Moore

To The Same. On Looking Through Her Album.

No wonder bards, both high and low,
    From Byron down to ***** and me,
Should seek the fame which all bestow
    On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,
    At once all errors are forgiven;
As even old Sternhold still we prize,
    Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

Thomas Moore

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

To A Lady, With Some Manuscript Poems, On Leaving The Country.

When, casting many a look behind,
    I leave the friends I cherish here--
Perchance some other friends to find,
    But surely finding none so dear--

Haply the little simple page,
    Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
    And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
    Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
    With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
    With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
    And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
    Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
    And linger kindl...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Introductory Rhymes.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.--Bayes, Henry Stevens, Herodotus, etc.--Writing in Bed--in the Fields.--Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.--Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.--Madame de Staël.--Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calêche.


What various attitudes and ways
    And tricks we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some like BAYES
    Usually stand while they're inditing,
Poets there are who wear the floor out,
    Measuring a line at every stride;
While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out
    Rhymes by the dozen while they ride.
HERODOTUS wrote most in bed;
    And RICHERAND, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head
    Goes best in that reclined position.
If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on
The subject, 'tis...

Thomas Moore

Ballad Stanzas.

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled
    Above the green elms, that a cottage was near.
And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,
    "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"
It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
    In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
    But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
    "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
"Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,
    How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
    "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
"And to know that I sighed upon innocent l...

Thomas Moore