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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes
Moore, Thomas (1779-1852)
  
[dedication]

expand sectionI, II. 
VOL. I., VOL. II. ODES OF ANACREON. JUVENILE POEMS. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.
expand sectionIII, IV. 
VOL. III., VOL. IV. CORRUPTION AND INTOLERANCE. THE SCEPTIC. TWOPENNY POST-BAG. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. IRISH MELODIES. NATIONAL AIRS. SACRED SONGS.
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VOL. V. EVENINGS IN GREECE. BALLADS, SONGS, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ETC. ETC.
expand sectionVI, VII. 
VOL. VI., VOL. VII. LALLA ROOKH. POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. RHYMES ON THE ROAD. AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
collapse sectionVIII, IX. 
VOL. VIII., VOL. IX THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND. MISCELLANEOUS.
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THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.
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THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND;
 I. 
LETTER I. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---, CURATE OF ---, IN IRELAND.
expand sectionII. 
LETTER II. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.
 III. 
LETTER III. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.
 IV. 
LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ. TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.
 V. 
LETTER V. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.
expand sectionVI. 
LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.
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LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.
 VIII. 
LETTER VIII. FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.
 IX. 
LETTER IX. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.
 X. 
LETTER X. FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ------.
expand sectionXI. 
LETTER XI. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.
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SONGS FROM M.P.;
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
expand sectionX. 
VOL. X. THE EPICUREAN. ALCIPHRON.

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SONG.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Thy soul, to realms above us fled,
Though, like a star, it dwells o'er head,
Still lights this world below.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
61

Through isles of light, where heroes tread
And flowers ethereal blow,
Thy god-like Spirit now is led,
Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed,
Forgets all taste of woe.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
The myrtle, round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time, with leaves unshed—
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread—
Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,
Though quench'd the vital glow,
Their memory lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed
Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
62

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,
From age to age shall go,
Long as the oak and ivy wed,
As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,
Or Helle's waters flow.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
 

Φιλταθ' Αρμοδι' ουπω τεθνηκας.

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