Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852 / Dublin)
''"Come, come" said Tom's father, "at your time of life,Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. "A Joke Versified."
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."
"Why, so it is, fatherwhose wife shall I take?"''
''At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyThomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. At the Mid Hour of Night (l. 1-2). . . Oxford Book of English Verse, The, 1250-1918. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. (New ed., rev. and enl., 1939) Oxford University Press.
To the lone vale we loved when life was warm in thine eye,''
''Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of Nineteenth-Century English Verse, The. John Hayward, ed. (1964; reprinted, with corrections, 1965) Oxford University Press.
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away.''
''No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms (l. 13-16). . . Oxford Book of Nineteenth-Century English Verse, The. John Hayward, ed. (1964; reprinted, with corrections, 1965) Oxford University Press.
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.''
''A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roué to retire upon.''Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. quoted by Lord Byron in a letter, Jan. 16, 1814. Byron's Letters and Journals, vol. 4 (1975).
''Money is like sex. Some people believe that the more sexual experiences they have, with as many different people as possible, the more fulfilled they will be. But even great quantities of money and sex may not satisfy the craving. The problem lies not in having too much or too little, but in taking money literally, as a fetish rather than as a medium. If wealth is found by rejecting the experience of poverty, then it will never be complete. The soul is nurtured by want as much as by plenty.''Thomas Moore (b. 1940), U.S. psychotherapist, author, lecturer. Care of the Soul: A Guide for Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in Everyday Life, ch. 9, HarperCollins (1992).
''Both envy and jealousy are common experiences. They are entirely different feelings, one a desire for what another person has, the other fear that the other person will take what we have, but they both have a corrosive effect on the heart. Either emotion can make a person feel ugly. There is nothing noble in either of them. At the same time, a person may feel oddly attached to them. The jealous person takes some pleasure in his suspicions, and the envious person feeds on his desire for what others possess.''Thomas Moore (b. 1940), U.S. psychotherapist, author. Care of the Soul: A Guide for Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in Everyday Life, ch. 5, HarperCollins (1992).
''Heaven grant him now some noble nook,Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. "Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter."
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than sav'd in vulgar company.''
''Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me.''Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. repr. In Moore's Poetical Works, ed. A.D. Godley (1910). "Oft in the Stilly Night," National Airs (1815).
''Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. Oh! Breathe Not His Name (l. 1-2). . . English Romantic Poetry and Prose. Russell Noyes, ed. (1956) Oxford University Press.
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid.''
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Dear Harp of my Country
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of Silence had hung o'er thee long.
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song.
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy livliest thrill,
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.