To Thomas Moore, Esq.

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
    Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse
    The midnight moon's soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman's lips,
    The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
    Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warrior's sword is bound
    With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned
    With the halo of liberty:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
    Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
    On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
    Its flashes of vivid light:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
    To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
    In thy strains is dearer still.

Frances Anne Kemble

Frances Anne Kemble, also known as Fanny, was a notable British actress and writer born on November 27, 1809, and died on January 15, 1893. She was a prominent figure in the 19th century literary and theatrical circles. Kemble was known for her acting prowess and her detailed journals and memoirs, which provide valuable insights into the life and times of her era.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To ----

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Written After Leaving West Point.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To The Dead.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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Drink To Her.

Drink to her, who long,
    Hath waked the poet's sigh.
The girl, who gave to song
    What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
    For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,
    It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
    Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
    What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,
    When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They asked her 'which might pass?"
    She answered, "he, who could."
With golden key Wealth thought
    To pass--but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,
    Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her, who long
    Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
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Thomas Moore

Anacreontic.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank,
    I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,
    'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint
    Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
    To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip
    Now blushes through the wave at me;
Every roseate drop I sip
    Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;
    For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
    And--in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,
    And may that eyelid never shine
Beneath a darker, bitterer tear
    Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

Thomas Moore

For The Moore Centennial Celebration

I
Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us,
Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim,
Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us
That blush into life at the sound of thy name.

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers, -
I hear the old song with its tender refrain, -
What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers
What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision, -
Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room, -
'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian, -
The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom, -

We are clustered around the "Clementi" piano, -
There were six of us then, - there are two of us now, -
She is singing - the girl with the silver soprano -
How...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

To George Morgan, Esq. Of Norfolk, Virginia.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!--
    High mountain waves and foamy showers,
And battling winds whose savage blast
    But ill agrees with one whose hours
    Have past in old Anacreon's bowers,
Yet think not poesy's bright charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm;^[1]--
When close they reefed the timid sail,
    When, every plank complaining loud,
We labored in the midnight gale;
And even our haughty mainmast bowed,
Even then, in that unlovely hour,
The Muse still brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's Elysium lapt my mind.
Nay, when no numbers of my own
Responded to her wakening tone,
She opened, with her golden key,
    The casket where my memory lays
...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode L.

^[1]


When wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;^[2]
And freshened by the goblet's dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,
When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;
And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

    Again I drink,--and, lo, there seems
A calmer light to fill my dreams;
The lately ruffled wreath I spread
With steadier hand around my head;
Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest
The life of...

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore.

The land of poetry and mirth,
Of orators and statesmen, too,
To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,
Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.

The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke,
May well, with gladness, sound thy name,
And honor thee, whose life and work
Produc'd a bright and joyous flame.

Thy lively genius, sparkling, free,
Emitted rays, which sparkle yet,
And gladden hearts across the sea,
When tears of pain their eyelids wet.

Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well,
And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode,
But thou, alone, possess'd the spell,
That served to ease thy country's load.

O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill,
With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head,
With patriotic heart and will,
To ease Oppression's crushin...

Thomas Frederick Young