Wreath The Bowl.

    Wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
    Should Love amid
    The wreaths be hid,
That joy, the enchanter, brings us,
    No danger fear,
    While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us,
    Then, wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

    'Twas nectar fed
    Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
    And man may brew
    His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
    Take wine like this,
    Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
    Then bring wit's beam
    To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!
    So wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

    Say, why did Time
    His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
    When wine, he knew,
    Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?
    Oh, lend it us,
    And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
    Make pleasure glide
    In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!
    Then wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

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

Scepticism.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To George Morgan, Esq. Of Norfolk, Virginia.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Hush, Sweet Lute.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thread the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nurst with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

    Behold!--my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Say, can the tears we lend to thought

Thomas Moore

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore

One Bumper At Parting.

One bumper at parting!--tho' many
    Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
    Remains to be crowned by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,
    Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
    It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come,--may our life's happy measure
    Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
    They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant
    To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
    That mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
    Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours--
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
    Than when his way lies among...

Thomas Moore

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

Anacreontic

Why must Poets, when they sing,
Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
Witness many a modern strain:
Poets! would ye sing with fire,
Wine, not water, must inspire.
Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
How within thy crystal frame
Does the rosy nectar flame!
Not so beauteous on the vine
Did the clustering rubies shine,
When the potent God of day
Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
When with proudness and delight
Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
Still the vintage-God admires.
Hail sweet antidote of wo!
Chiefest blessing mortals know!
Nay, the mighty powers divine
Own the magic force of wine.
Wearied with the world's affairs,
Jove himself, t...

Thomas Oldham

Fill The Bumper Fair.

Fill the bumper fair!
    Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
    Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
    Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame
    It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!
    Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
    Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,
    Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
    From the starred dominions:--
So we, Sages, sit,
    And, mid bumpers brightening,
From the Heaven of Wit
    Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first
    Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
    For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
    When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus...

Thomas Moore