Thomas Moore

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now, Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No: -- life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile -- May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows If it were not with friendship and love intertwined; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessing shall cease to be dear to my mind. But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, -- That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep -- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup -- if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet; -- while idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Though the days of the hero are o'er, Though lost to Mononia and cold to the grave, He returns to Kinkora no more. That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions who stoood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; -- Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain.

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turn'd, To look at orbs that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burn'd. But too far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere, Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own, While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet, Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. I said (while The moon's smile Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this;" And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting --

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain; It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients we know, (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,) Adorn'd with somniferous poppies, to show, Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best, shooting-jacket, before thee, An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches, Great Queen of the Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee), Thou'lt read o'er the last of his -- never-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou know'st not the slander and scorn Now heap'd upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted; Improving on Hunt, 'tis no longer the Corn, 'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us -- Reviewers, economists - fellows, no doubt, That you, my dear Ceres, and Venus, and Bacchus, And Gods of high fashion know little about.

There's B-nth-m, whose English is all his own making -- Who thinks just as little of settling a nation As he would of smoking his pipe, or of taking (What he, himself, calls) his "post-prandial vibration."

There are two Mr. M---lls, too, whom those that love reading Through all that's unreadable, call very clever; -- And whreas M---ll Senior makes war on good breeding, M---ll Junio makes war on all breeding whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, Old England's divided Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages; -- With which of these classes we, landlords, have sided Thou'lt find in my Speech, if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've prov'd, to my own satisfaction, And that of all 'Squires I've the honour of meeting, That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouth'd detraction To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "chaste notions" of food that dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart, They would scorn any law, be it every so good, That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day, When the Land and the Silk shall, in fond combination, (Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play) Cry out, with one voice, High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister! -- no matter who, Or how dull he may be, if, with dignified spirit, he Keeps the ports shut -- and the people's mouth too, -- We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity.

And, as for myself, who've like Hannibal, sworn To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us, Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn, That last, honest Uni-Corn would be Sir Th-m-s!

The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That sadden'd the joy of my mind. I look'd for the lamp which, she told me, Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd; But, though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely, As if the loved tenant lay dead; -- Ah, would it were death, and death only! But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss; While the hand that had waked it so often Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women, When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to wrong thee in thought! While now -- oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! And through ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide, to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain. But onward! --- the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin, On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.