Talk:Clement Clarke Moore
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[edit] Move
Shouldn't this page really be at Clement Clarke Moore?! I've never heard him referred to as 'Clement Moore' without middle name. Quill 05:33, 1 Aug 2004 (UTC)
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- His only full-length biography is titled Clement Clarke Moore. Wetman 05:38, 1 Aug 2004 (UTC)
[edit] Clarify
What does this sentence mean? "Later in life, however, Moore was in the habit of writing out fair copies of the poem when asked to do so, and facsimiles have been published twice." What is a fair copy? I would fix this but I don't know how. What are the facsimiles of? The poem or of the fair copies? Anyone understand this? hdstubbs
[edit] Biography
Shouldn't this be more of a biographical page about Moore rather than an additional dispute about the authoriship of Twas the Night Before Christmas? CJJDay 21:11, 22 February 2006 (UTC)
[edit] Moore's 'A Visit' and 'Lines to Southey' comparison for thought
As a comparison to "A Visit" the following is a heart breaking poem written by Clement Clarke Moore in direct response to writings of then well-known English poet, Robert Southey. Moore read Southey's work and commented not only on the quality of his writing but also on their similar personal losses. Clement Clarke Moore and his wife lost their 6th child, daughter Emily, on April 19, 1828, age 6yrs and 6 days. His wife died on April 4th, 1830. Second eldest daughter, Charity, died on Dec. 14, 1830 at age 14. 'Lines To Southey' was also included in Moore's book, Poems, New York: Bartlett & Welford, 1844.
"The 'Lines to Southey' were written but never sent, after reading the dedication of that poet of 'A Tale of Paraguay' to his daughter, Edith May Southey. In Moore's poem he laments the loss of his wife and two of his children; and his grief has a note that makes its way to the heart in spite of the formal versification that hinders its free motions." - Clarence Cook, Century Magazine, December 1897, by permission of the Century Company.
The above paragraph was taken from a genealogical history including Clement Clarke Moore's family entitled: Rev. John Moore of Newtown, Long Island and some of his Descendants, Compiled by James W. Moore, Lafayette College. Chemical Publishing Company, Easton Pennsylvania. MCMIII. (1903). p. 107. Reprints of this out-of-print book are available via Higginson book company.
'Lines to Southey' from Poems, 1844.
Southey, I love the magic of thy lyre, That calms, at will, or sets the soul on fire; Whose changeful notes through ev'ry mode can stray, From deep-toned horror to the sprighliest lay. In Fancy's wilds with you I love to roam, Where all things strange and monstrous make their home. And when from wild imagination's dreams You wake to holy or heroic themes, My spirit owns the impulse of your strains; My circling blood flows freer through my veins.
Yet not amid these wonders of your art I find the trembling key-note of my heart. 'Tis not the depth and strength of tone that bring Responsive murmurs from a neighboring string. Soft sympathetic sounds and tremors rise Only from chords attun'd to harmonize. 'Tis when you pour the simple plaintive strain That tells a fond bereaved parent's pain, 'Tis when you sing of dear ones gone to rest, I feel each fibre vibrate in my breast. Alas! too well, bereavement's pangs I know; Too well, a parent's and a husband's woe.
To crown the num'rous blessings of my life, I had sweet children and a lovely wife. All seem'd so firm, so ordered to endure, That, fool! I fancied all around secure. Heav'n seem'd to smile; Hope whisper'd to my heart, These love-wrought ties shall never rudely part; But Time, with sow advance and gentle hand, Shall loosen, one by one, each sacred band. The old shall first drop peaceful in the tomb, And leave the young to fill their vacant room. Life's pleasures shall not wither at a blow, But quiet pass, with mild decay and slow. The buoyant joys of youth, so bright and fair, Like rainbow tints, shall mellow into air.
But sad reality has prov'd how vain This faithless prospect of a dreaming brain. Death's icy hand, within three fleeting years, Has chang'd this scene of bliss to sighs and tears. One lovely innocent was snatch'd away -- A rose-bud, not half-open'd to the day -- I saw my wife, then to the grave descend, Beloved of my heart, my bosom friend. So interwoven were our joys, our pains, That, as I weeping follow'd her remains, I thought to tell her of the mournful scene -- I could not realize the gulph between.
This was not all; there was another blow Reserv'd to put the finish to my woe. A sweet endearing creature, perish'd last, In youth's first spring, all childhood's dangers past -- Oh! awful trial of religion's power, To see a suffering innocent's last hour! But mark me well -- I would not change one jot Of Heaven's decrees, to meliorate my lot: Farewell to early bliss, to all that's bright! No thought rebels; I know, I feel 'tis right. Nor should I mourn as though of all bereft: Some transient pleasures, here and there, are left; Some short-liv'd flowers that in the forest bloom, And scatter fragrance in the settled gloom.
I look not round, and peevishly repine, As though no other sorrow equall'd mine. I boast no proud preeminence of pain -- But oh! these spectres that infest my brain! My death-struck child, with nostrils breathing wide, Turning in vain, for ease, from side to side; The fitful flush that lit her half-closed eye, And burned her sunken cheek; her plaintive cry; Her dying gasp; and as she sank to rest, Her wither'd hands cross'd gently o'er her breast.
My dying wife's emaciated form, So late, with youthful spirit fresh and warm. The deep, but noiseless anguish of her mind At leaving all she lov'd on earth behind. The silent tear that down her cheek would stray, And wet the pillow where resign'd she lay. Her stiffen'd limbs, all powerless and weak; Her clay-cold parting kiss; her pale damp cheek; Her awful prayer for mercy, at the last, Fainter and fainter, till her spirit pass'd -- The image of the next lov'd suffer too Is ever, ever present to my view. Her cease cough -- her quick and panting breath, With all the dreadful harbingers of death. No anxious mother watching at her side, To whisper consolation as she died.
Oh! do not ask me why I thus complain To you a stranger, far across the main -- Bear with a bleeding heart that loves to tell Its sorrows, and on all pangs to dwell. A strange relief the mourner's bosom knows In clinging close and closer to its woes. In unheard plaints it consolation finds, And weeps and murmurs to the heedless winds.
Author: Clement Clarke Moore; Father of nine, married once, devoted husband and father. Widower at 51 left with 7 surviving children to raise. Philanthropist.
Soon after 'Poems' was published, Moore lost his oldest daughter, Margaret Elliott Moore Ogden on April 13, 1845. She had recently given birth to a son named Clement Moore Ogden on Feb. 24th of 1845 and he died at the age of 2, on Nov. 11th, 1847.
It is not surprising that more lighthearted poetry did not follow. 'A Visit' has endured. And so have Moore's descendants. So has his support of the General Theological Seminary - which sits on land that was once his apple orchard on the Chelsea Farm, before becoming part of the growing city a few miles to its south. Like so many gentlemen of his day, writing poems was something Moore did as a creative outlet. It is hard to imagine he expected to be remembered for it.
