Poem by Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 109. Though Humble the Banquet

          THOUGH humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
                Thou’lt find there the best a poor bard can command;
          Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
                And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

          And though Fortune may seem to have turn’d from the dwelling
                Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,
          Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
                Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

          ’Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
                Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves,
          Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
                Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

          ’Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
                And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved,
          The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
                Than the costliest incense that Pomp e’er received.

          Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power
                To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
          And there’s one, long the light of the bard’s happy bower,
                Who, smiling will blend her bright welcome with mine. 

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
3. To the Fire‑Fly
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 64

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