Jonathan Swift -- November 30, 1667

                                    Jonathan Swift  November 30, 1667 --October 19, 1745

Dublin born Jonathan Swift, remembered as a masterful satirist, wrote prose, poetry, essays, and political statements. An ordained Anglican minister, in 1713 he became Dean of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, a post he held until 1742.

  

On Snow

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin,

No lady alive can show such a skin.

I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,

But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.

Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,

Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.

Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,

The foulest impressions I easily take.

My parent and I produce one another,

The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

An Echo

Never sleeping, still awake,

Pleasing most when most I speak;

The delight of old and young,

Though I speak without a tongue.

Nought but one thing can confound me,

Many voices joining round me;

Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,

Like the labourers of Babel.

Now I am a dog, or cow,

I can bark, or I can low;

I can bleat, or I can sing,

Like the warblers of the spring.

Let the lovesick bard complain,

And I mourn the cruel pain;

Let the happy swain rejoice,

And I join my helping voice:

Both are welcome, grief or joy,

I with either sport and toy.

Though a lady, I am stout,

Drums and trumpets bring me out:

Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,

Join in all the din of battle.

Jove, with all his loudest thunder,

When I'm vext, can't keep me under;

Yet so tender is my ear,

That the lowest voice I fear;

Much I dread the courtier's fate,

When his merit's out of date,

For I hate a silent breath,

And a whisper is my death.

Elegy Upon Tiger

Her dead lady's joy and comfort,

Who departed this life

The last day of March, 1727:

To the great joy of Bryan

That his antagonist is gone.

And is poor Tiger laid at last so low?

O day of sorrow! -Day of dismal woe!

Bloodhounds, or spaniels, lap-dogs, 'tis all one,

When Death once whistles -snap! -away they're gone.

See how she lies, and hangs her lifeless ears,

Bathed in her mournful lady's tears!

Dumb is her throat, and wagless is her tail,

Doomed to the grave, to Death's eternal jail!

In a few days this lovely creature must

First turn to clay, and then be changed to dust.

That mouth which used its lady's mouth to lick

Must yield its jaw-bones to the worms to pick.

That mouth which used the partridge-wing to eat

Must give its palate to the worms to eat.

Methinks I see her now in Charon's boat

Bark at the Stygian fish which round it float;

While Cerberus, alarmed to hear the sound,

Makes Hell's wide concave bellow all around.

She sees him not, but hears him through the dark,

And valiantly returns him bark for bark.

But now she trembles -though a ghost, she dreads

To see a dog with three large yawning heads.

Spare her, you hell-hounds, case your frightful paws,

And let poor Tiger 'scape your furious jaws.

Let her go safe to the Elysian plains,

Where Hylax barks among the Mantuan swains;

There let her frisk about her new-found love:

She loved a dog when she was here above.

The Epitaph

Here lies beneath this marble

An animal could bark, or warble:

Sometimes a bitch, sometimes a bird,

Could eat a tart, or eat a t -.

On Gold

All-ruling tyrant of the earth,

To vilest slaves I owe my birth,

How is the greatest monarch blest,

When in my gaudy livery drest!

No haughty nymph has power to run

From me; or my embraces shun.

Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame,

My constancy is still the same.

The favourite messenger of Jove,

And Lemnian god, consulting strove

To make me glorious to the sight

Of mortals, and the gods' delight.

Soon would their altar's flame expire

If I refused to lend them fire.

              

By fate exalted high in place,

Lo, here I stand with double face:

Superior none on earth I find;

But see below me all mankind

Yet, as it oft attends the great,

I almost sink with my own weight.

At every motion undertook,

The vulgar all consult my look.

I sometimes give advice in writing,

But never of my own inditing.

I am a courtier in my way;

For those who raised me, I betray;

And some give out that I entice

To lust, to luxury, and dice.

Who punishments on me inflict,

Because they find their pockets pickt.

By riding post, I lose my health,

And only to get others wealth.

 

 -- Cat

May 28 - Thomas Moore

             Thomas Moore  May 28, 1779 to February 25, 1852  Irish poet, singer



Biography




After the Battle by Thomas Moore
                              

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost --
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; --
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?


 

Drink To Her by Thomas Moore

                         
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 play'd,
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 ask'd her, "which might pass?"
She answer'd, "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
What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark mines.
But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Though woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.




Erin, Oh Erin by Thomas Moore
                              

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.



 
Go Where Glory Waits Thee by Thomas Moore

 
Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,
Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee, --
Oh! then remember me.




If Thou'lt Be Mine by Thomas Moore

 
If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,
Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,
Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,
Shall be ours -- if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,
A voice divine shall talk in each stream;
The stars shall look like world of love,
And this earth be all one beautiful dream
In our eyes -- if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,
Like streams that come from heaven-ward hills,
Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie
To be bathed by those eternal rills,
Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love
Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells;
That heaven, which forms his home above,
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,
As thou'lt own, -- if thou wilt be mine, love!




Oft, in the Stilly Night by Thomas Moore

 
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

 
-- Cat