Thomas Moore imagines an arrogant country squire praying to Ceres, the goddess of grain, hoping she’ll appreciate his political speech. The poem is a playful, biting satire of England’s Corn Laws, which kept bread prices artificially high to benefit wealthy landowners. The speaker, posing as a concerned gentleman, pretends to defend starving laborers’ “chaste notions” of food — claiming they wouldn’t want grain any cheaper. All the while he sneers at reformers like Bentham and the Mills, who threaten his rental income. The mood is light and comically absurd, full of exaggerated flattery and sly confessions, but underneath it, real anger at the greed of the landed class simmers. Moore makes the squire sound so self-important and foolish that the satire feels almost affectionate, until you catch the cruel joke: this man’s prosperity requires other people’s hunger. It’s a poem that laughs while making your stomach turn.
Ode to the Goddess Ceres — Summary
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!