The Buckley School's founder believed all public speakers could enhance their presentation skills by reading poetry out loud. We keep that worthwhile practice alive by including a poem in our magazine each month for you to read aloud. Above, a portrait of Thomas Moore as a young man.
A poet, songwriter, and satirist, Thomas Moore achieved acclaim in his lifetime and is still known as one of Ireland's great literary figures. A close friend of Lord Byron, Moore wrote that poet's biography and has been accused of burning Byron's memoir to keep damaging stories of his life from being shared with the world.
Moore was born in 1779 in Dublin to a Catholic family, studied at Trinity College, then moved to London and built his literary career. Among his most popular works were a collection of song lyrics he wrote, Irish Melodies, set to traditional Irish tunes. Many of those songs are still performed today. While some of his poetry is patriotic, other poems express romantic sadness, with still others taking a wry look at politics of the day.
Moore's relationship with Byron is an enemy-to-friends tale worthy of a Lin-Manuel Miranda musical. Byron mocked Moore's poems in a review. Moore then challenged Byron to a duel. Friends intervened, the two writers became admiring friends, and Bryon entrusted Moore with the manuscript of his no-holds-barred memoir. Though Moore did not burn Byron's memoir, as has often been claimed, Moore was instrumental in preventing its publication—and the manuscript was burned by the publisher. Moore later said he regretted his role in the decision, which historians consider a huge loss to English literary history.
Some Thomas Moore with our Chocolove.
We first came across this month's poem inside the wrapper of a chocolate bar, where the second stanza was printed (thank you very much). Below find the first stanza of "To the Invisible Girl." Go here to find the rest of the poem.
To The Invisible Girl.
by THOMAS MOORE
They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye
As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.
But I will not believe them--no, Science, to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:
Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;
How rays are confused, or how particles fly
Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh;
Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?
