Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee, <br />Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command; <br />Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, <br />And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand. <br /> <br />And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling <br />Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, <br />Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, <br />Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. <br /> <br />'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion <br />Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves, <br />Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, <br />Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. <br /> <br />'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, <br />And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved, <br />The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet <br />Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received. <br /> <br />Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power <br />To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; <br />And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, <br />Who, smiling will blend her bright welcome with mine.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/though-humble-the-banquet/
