"Invitation to a Ball" by Clement Moore. And they think the mind that wrote THIS wrote NBC?

When pulling numbers out of Moore and Livingston's poetry, I had to read the poems over and over and over and over and over again. Reading Livingston's was pure joy. Reading Moore required taking a deep breath and clearing my mind so that I approached him as neutrally as possible. The best I can compare it to is the last deep breath you take at the top of the hills at Palos Verdes before driving down into the Los Angeles smog. You know you have to do it, so you do.

Lines Addressed to a Lady, As an Apology for not Accepting her Invitation to a Ball. Written many years ago. (Published 1844; Night Before Christmas published 1823)

Full well I know what direful wrath impends,
From Fashion’s gay and numerous host of friends,
O’er all who blindly list not in her cause,
Nor swear eternal fealty to her laws.
I know with what despotic sway she rules
O’er old and young, o’er wise as well as fools;
In what imperious tones she bids the throng
Obey her word, though Heav’n pronounce it wrong.

Yet, though my crimes against this power so high
Be numberless, and oft of deepest dye,
Leave I entreat to extenuate my blame:
A right which guiltiest criminals may claim;
E’en they who fly not at a Lady’s call,
And dare withstand the attraction of a ball.

Of magic zones and rings you oft have heard,
By fairies on their favorites conferred,
Which pinch’d the wearers sore, or made them bleed,
Whene’er they went astray in thought or deed.
Nor think these stories false because they’re old,
But true as this which soon I will unfold.
Sweet sleep had shed its mists around my eyes,
And fancy’s motley forms began to rise,
When, ‘mid these fleeting phantoms of the night,
A vision stood distinct before my sight.
Though far below the human size it seem’d
A dazzling brightness from its visage beam’d.
My airy dreams it seem’d to chase away,
And thus in sweetest accents deign’d to say:

“Hail, Youth! In me behold a friendly power,
Thy guard in every place, at every hour,
Who thus appear expos’d to mortal view,
Clearly to mark the course you should pursue.
To me ‘tis giv’n your virtue to secure
From custom’s force and pleasure’s dangerous lure.
I watch the motions of your youthful mind,
Rejoicing when to virtue ‘tis inclin’d;
But when a growing folly is descried,
To root it out, no art I leave untried.
Those drugs I mix in pleasure’s luscious bowl
Which pain the body to preserve the soul.
That listlessness, those qualms, those aches I send
Which dissipation’s giddy round attend.
Nor let these warnings, by your Guardian giv’n,
By winning pleasure from your thoughts be driv’n.
For if, regardless of my friendly voice,
In Fashion’s gaudy scenes your heart rejoice,
Dire punishments shall fall upon your head:
Disgust, and fretfulness, and secret dread.
Unmeaning forms shall swim before your eyes,
Wild as the clouds which float in vernal skies.

But if true wisdom all your thoughts employ,
I promise lasting peace and health and joy.
A mind untouch’d by malice or by spleen
Shall make your slumbers light, your thoughts serene;
And through the ills which mortals must betide
I still will be your counsellor and guide.”

So spoke the friendly power; then, waving light
His azure pinions, vanish’d from my sight.
Such is the guardian Genius, ever near,
Whose love I strive to gain, whose wrath I fear.
But, when his favoring smiles I would secure,
Complaining friendship’s frown I oft endure;
And now, for open breach of Fashion’s laws,
A criminal, am forc’d to plead my cause.
Such is my lot; and though I guilty prove,
Compassion sure my Judge’s breast will move.
Not pardon for my fault I hope to find;
But humbly pray, you’ll change to one more kind
The threaten’d sentence, cruel as ‘tis hard,
To lose forever your benign regard.

PING

I couldn’t get through it. The very premise of it is uninteresting and as William G. McAdoo said of President Harding’s speeches, “an army of pompous phrases moving over the landscape in search of an idea.”

To top it off, the meter is halting and stumbling.

Bad poesy.

It’s absolutely dreadful. He’s the moralist supreme. He looks at snow and has to tell the children that it’s going to be melted in the gutter. Everything he turns into a moral to wreck the loveliest images.

His verses are purer than Henry’s. His rhymes are real rhymes and almost no near rhymes. His rhythms are usually right on. It’s just that they’re BORING. And that’s what makes it so hard to explain to people just how bad Moore’s work is. His book was never reprinted and I couldn’t even FIND a copy on Google books. The only reason I have all his poetry is because Brown University allowed me to print out a microfilm. His horrible poetry has just gone down a dark and dank hole. What I’m trying to do is pull it out and expose it to sunlight.

When you look at the first publication of NBC, it’s got all of Henry’s problems that come from being quick and dirty. The editors had to clean it up because it was so good it was worth cleaning up.

Well, it is iambic pentameter (if you assume that an unstressed vowel here and there was meant to be elided). Alexander Pope favored iambic pentameter but he was a masterful poet and had something to say. This is the iambic pentameter tradition gone to seed in the hands of a third-rate poet who doesn’t have anything to say.

I see the writer followed the rule of “why use three words, when thirty will do”!

Didn’t Art Carney write it?

if not, did he at least invent something when he rapped it in 1954?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=peNvesK0B4s

>>iambic pentameter

Moore did write a couple things in anapestic scheme. A Christmas poem for his daughter, bemoaning that because of her crying he left her stocking empty. A moralistic tale of a pig and rooster where they spend the poem insulting one another.

What! My sweet little Sis, in bed all alone;
No light in your room! And your nursy too gone!
And you, like a good child, are quietly lying,
While some naughty ones would be fretting or crying?
Well, for this you must have something pretty, my dear;
And, I hope, will deserve a reward too next year.
But, speaking of crying, I’m sorry to say
Your screeches and screams, so loud ev’ry day,
Were near driving me and my goodies away.
Good children I always give good things in plenty;
How sad to have left your stocking quite empty:
But you are beginning so nicely to spell,
And, in going to bed, behave always so well,
That, although I too oft see the tear in your eye,
I cannot resolve to pass you quite by.
I hope, when I come here again the next year,
I shall not see even the sign of a tear.
And then, if you get back your sweet pleasant looks,
And do as you’re bid, I will leave you some books,
Some toys, or perhaps what you still may like better,
And then too may write you a prettier letter.
At present, my dear, I must bid you good bye;
Now, do as you’re bid; and, remember, don’t cry.

*******************

On a warm sunny day, in the midst of July,
A lazy young pig lay stretched out in his sty,
Like some of his betters, most solemnly thinking
That the best things on earth are good eating and drinking.
At length, to get rid of the gnats and the flies,
He resolv’d, from his sweet meditations to rise;
And, to keep his skin pleasant, and pliant, and cool,
He plung’d him, forthwith, in the next muddy pool.
When, at last, he thought fit to arouse from his bath,
A conceited young rooster came just in his path:
A precious smart prig, full in vanity drest,
Who thought, of all creatures, himself far the best.
“Hey day! little grunter, why where in the world
Are you going so perfum’d, pomatum’d, and curl’d?
Such delicate odors my senses assail,
And I see such a sly looking twist in your tail,
That you, sure are intent on some elegant sporting;
Hurra! I believe, on my life, you are courting;
And that figure which moves with such exquisite grace,
Combin’d with the charms of that soft-smiling face,
In one who’s so neat and adorn’d with such art,
Cannot fail to secure the most obdurate heart.
And much joy do I wish you, both you and your wife,
For the prospect you have of a nice pleasant life.”

“Well, said, master Dunghill,” cried Pig in a rage,
“You’re doubtless, the prettiest beau of the age,
With those sweet modest eyes staring out of your head,
And those lumps of raw flesh, all so bloody and red.
Mighty graceful you look with those beautiful legs,
Like a squash or a pumpkin on two wooden pegs.
And you’ve special good reason your own life to vaunt,
And the pleasures of others with insult to taunt;
Among crackling fools, always clucking or crowing,
And looking up this way and that way, so knowing,
And strutting and swelling, or stretching a wing,
To make you admired by each silly thing;
and so full of your own precious self, all the time,
That you think common courtesy almost a crime;
As if all the world was on the look out
To see a young rooster go scratching about.”

Hereupon, a debate, like a whirlwind arose,
Which seem’d fast approaching to bitings and blows;
‘Mid squeaking and grunting, Pig’s arguments flowing;
And Chick venting fury ‘twixt screaming and crowing.
At length, to decide the affair, ‘twas agreed
That to counsellor Owl they should straightway proceed;
While each, in his conscience, no motive could show,
But the laudable wish to exult o’er his foe.

Other birds, of all feather, their vigils were keeping,
While Owl, in his nook, was most learnedly sleeping:
For, like a true sage, he preferred the dark night,
When engaged in his work, to the sun’s blessed light.
Each stated his plea, and the owl was required
To say whose condition should most be desired.
It seem’d to the judge a strange cause to be put on,
To tell which was better, a fop or a glutton;
Yet, like a good lawyer, he kept a calm face,
And proceeded, by rule, to examine the case;
With both his round eyes gave a deep-meaning wink,
And, extending one talon, he set him to think.

In fine, with a face much inclin’d for a joke,
And a mock solemn accent, the counsellor spoke —
“’Twixt Rooster and Roaster, this cause to decide,
Would afford me, my friends, much profesional pride.
Were each on the table serv’d up, and well dress’d,
I could easily tell which I fancied the best;
But while both here before me, so lively I see,
This cause is, in truth, too important for me;
Without trouble, however, among human kind,
Many dealers in questions like this you may find.
Yet, one sober truth, ere we part, I would teach —
That the life you each lead is best fitted for each.
‘Tis the joy of a cockerel to strut and look big,
And, to wallow in mire, is the bliss of a pig.
But, whose life is more pleasant, when viewed in itself,
Is a question had better be laid on the shelf,
Like many which puzzle deep reasoners’ brains,
And reward them with nothing but words for their pains.
So now, my good clients, I have been long awake,
And I pray you, in peace, your departure to take.
let each one enjoy, with content, his own pleasure,
Nor attempt, by himself, other people to measure.”

Thus ended the strife, as does many a fight;
Each thought his foe wrong, and his own notions right.
Pig turn’d, with a grunt, to his mire anew,
And He-biddy, laughing, cried — cock-a-doodle-doo.

YIKES!

That is bad.

All he had to say was “I have a previous engagement” LOL

Quite true. But when you read his 500 line poems, you know that he’s enjoying every word that comes off his pen, and assuming that everyone else does, too.

Hope you and Penny had a good Christmas season.

Yuk!

I know I write lousy poetry but enjoy for my private pleasure! Not to foist upon the world! LOL at this guy! You are right, a prig who needs to be exposed.

The problem with exposing him is how do you get people to suffer through his horrible poetry to discover that it IS horrible?

Just the right occasion to use the word “poetaster” in a sentence.

I was set to argue that Moore was supposed to be moralizing, since he was a minister. My response to Pope Francis’ “who am I to judge” is “THE POPE!!!” Ministers are to teach right from wrong, and it was extremely typical of ministers of his age to warn against the dangers of fashion.... hardly making him a prig. (Oh, if only more warned against fashion TODAY!)

But I’m forced to confess that Moore’s meter is terrible; he seems to believe the entirety of the challenge of meter consists of making each line contain the same number of syllables. A Visit from St Nicholas, on the other hand, just simply flows.

I’ll give him no credit for true rhymes over near rhymes. As you probably know, A rhyme provides an “a-ha” moment in your mind, like when music resolves from a IV7 to a I. Thus, a near rhyme can deliberately throw you slightly off, letting you know that a lyrical phrase isn’t quite resolved.

Curiously, the meter of the empty stocking poem is also vastly superior to that of “Invitation to a Ball.” And its rhymes are LESS precise.

I’ll admit, however, that as a native Long Islander, that the precision of rhymes is a sticky issue to me. The Long Island dialect has more vowel sounds than any other dialect on earth, meaning very few words truly rhyme, accumulating distinct pronunciations for just about any letter combination. Moore rhymes “gone” with “[a]lone,” which don’t rhyme at all to me.

On Long Island, “am” doesn’t rhyme with “bam.” (”Am” sounds closer to “em,” where as “bam” sounds like something between an “a” and a “ay.”) “Pa,” “par,” “paw” and “Pah” all sound the same to my New England cousins, but are absolutely distinct to Long Islanders. “Hour” and “our” rhyme far more with “power” and “par” than each other. “Mary” is closer to “airy” than “marry,” but “fairy” and “ferry” are almost homonyms, neither rhyming at all with “airy.” LIkewise, “dairy” comes closer to rhyming with “merry” than with “airy” or “Mary.”

>>I was set to argue that Moore was supposed to be moralizing, since he was a minister.

On the other hand, Henry is EXTREMELY religious. He was a Deacon in the Dutch Reformed Church. His father had been Elder and Deacon. His brother was a famous theologian who brought together two disparate groups of the church. Henry’s approach to religion, unlike Moore’s, was to emphasize the joy of it.

I LOVE my feeble voice to raise
In humble pray’r and ardent praise
Till my rapt soul attains that height
When all is glory and delight.

I LOVE to read the book of Heav’n
Which Grace to fall’n man has giv’n;
Where evr’y page and evr’y line
Proclaims its origin divine.

I LOVE that consecrated Fane
Where GOD has stamp’d his holy name:
United with my brethren there
We hear the word and join in pray’r.

I LOVE to join the pious few
And there the covenant renew,
Recount our joys, relate our grief
And jointly ask from GOD relief.

I LOVE on Pity’s wing to fly
To sooth the deep expiring sigh,
To wipe the tear from wan distress
And light a smile on Sorrow’s face.

I LOVE to view domestic bliss
Bound with the ligature of peace,
Where Parents - Children - All agree
To tune the lute of harmony.

I LOVE the morning’s roseate ray,
I bless the glorious march of day,
And when the lulling ev’ning comes
I love the night amidst its glooms.

I LOVE to anticipate the day
When the freed spirit wings its way
To the Jerusalem above
Where reigns ‘th eternal SOURCE of LOVE.

For my beloved daughter Jane.

***

It’s fascinating to watch the reaction of each to the death of their wife. Moore spends his poem
http://www.henrylivingston.com/xmas/livingstonmoore/mooresouthey.htm

telling about every drop of sweat on her face and his trauma, then remembers God at the end. Henry spends his poem
http://www.henrylivingston.com/writing/poetry/deathsarah.htm

describing the happiness of his wife at being in the presence of God.

Moore’s type of moralizing might have been common for some kinds of pastors, but obviously there was another view of religion that found nothing wrong with people joined in celebration of God AND life.

>>A Visit from St Nicholas, on the other hand, just simply flows.

For the most part. But the trick is to look at the original printing, before the editors got to it. That’s where you see Henry’s touch.

Original printing
http://www.henrylivingston.com/xmas/poemvariants/troysentinel1823.htm

Near rhyme AND flow fixed by editors:
“Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
“On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;

***

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

needed an additional syllable in the first line

****************

RHYMES

Here’s the research data for both Henry and Moore.

http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/countablepoems/rhymes/

Alphabetical and color-coded to show the distinction between near and perfect rhymes. Henry+ shows the rhymes occurring in poems PROBABLY by Henry but not in the tighter database we used for our main analysis. Moore+ is guaranteed to be by Moore, but we didn’t use the manuscript poems from the Museum of the City of New York in our original analysis because there exists NO copy of those poems until I went there and photographed them and typed them all in.

Just a note: all the similar rhymes that Moore uses to NBC were written AFTER the publication of NBC. All of the similar rhymes that Henry uses (jelly/belly; matter/clatter) were written BEFORE the publication of NBC. I’ve always believed that Moore used these rhymes, so uncommon in his writing, in order to cover his posterior.

PRONUNCIATIONS:

All of our analysis of the movement of the tongue in the mouth depends on how we define the pronunciation of each word - phonemes. Lyn Bates and I expanded the dictionary of phonemes for this analysis. Lyn had been president of Computional Linguistics back in the days when I was chair of Computer Programming Languages.

The dictionary - IMMENSE - is at:

http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newphones/combined-dict.txt

**************

The individual poem phonemes are at:

Henry:
http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newphones/phonemesperwordhenry3-23-2012.htm

Moore:
http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newphones/phonemesperwordmoore3-23-2012.htm

**************

The total data is summarized at:

Henry:
http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newphones/phonemesperwordhenry3-23-2012.htm

http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newestphones/henry/HENRY-SUMMARY-ALL.htm

Moore:
http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newphones/phonemesperwordmoore3-23-2012.htm

http://www.iment.com/maida/familytree/henry/xmasresearch/newestphones/moore/MOORE-SUMMARY-ALL.htm

>>“poetaster”

Exquisite.

LOL! You Too. Happy New Year!

The first one reminds me of the NBC.

The man who wrote this could have easily written NBC>