Anne Boleyn. Translation From The Metrical

"Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."


        "S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante,
        Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,
        Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos
        En les lenant quelquefoys en repos;
        Aucune foys envoyant en message
        Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage."


Much as her form seduced the sight,
    Her eyes could even more surely woo;
And when and how to shoot their light
    Into men's hearts full well she knew.
For sometimes in repose she hid
Their rays beneath a downcast lid;
And then again, with wakening air,
    Would send their sunny glances out,
Like heralds of delight, to bear
    Her heart's sweet messages about.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Dear Harp Of My Country.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Evening Gun.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Tell-Tale Lyre.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love Thee?

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

A Prologue

While to the clarion blown by Marlowes breath
Tall Tragedy tramped by in hues of death,
And Shakespeare yet was tuning string by string,
With English hawthorn crowned, in that glad spring
When bright clouds melted in a sky serene,
Romance moved lightly to the pipe of Greene.
As fresh as buds half-open, pure as dew,
Two damsels came in forefront of her crew,
One native to the hedgerows and the meads,
The keepers lass, in simple country weeds,
Her firm white arms, as delicate as silk,
Below her smock-sleeve shining wet with milk;
No marvel the young noble learnt to woo
A maid so merry and frank and homely true.
The other with sad mien, though yet a bride,
Clad in mans raiment softly stole aside
And grieved that he who should have been her stay
Would priv...

John Le Gay Brereton

Who Is The Maid? St. Jerome's Love. (Air.--Beethoven.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
    Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
    Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
    Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
    Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
    From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
    As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast
    That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
    To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize
    And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
    Is ...

Thomas Moore

A Fragment

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire
Careless of form and face.
Then whence this change, and why so oft
Dost smooth thy hazel hair?
And wherefore deck thy youthful form
With such unwearied care?
'Tell us, and cease to tire our ears
With yonder hackneyed strain
Why wilt thou play those simple tunes
So often o'er again?'
'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone.
Each year its own new feelings brings
And years move swiftly on,

And for these little simple airs,
I love to play them o'er
So much I dare not promise now
To play them never more.'
I answered and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts
Nor see ...

Anne Bronte

André Le Chapelain.

(Clerk of Love, 1170.)

His Plaint To Venus Of The Coming Years.

"Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté
Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;
Mon beau printemps et mon esté
Ont fait le saut par la fenestre."


Queen Venus, round whose feet,
To tend thy sacred fire,
With service bitter-sweet
Nor youths nor maidens tire;--
Goddess, whose bounties be
Large as the un-oared sea;--

Mother, whose eldest born
First stirred his stammering tongue,
In the world's youngest morn,
When the first daisies sprung:--
Whose last, when Time shall die,
In the same grave shall lie:--

Hear thou one suppliant more!
Must I, thy Bard, grow old,
Bent, with the temples frore,
Not jocund be nor bold,
To tune for folk in May
Ballad and ...

Henry Austin Dobson

Anacreontic.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
    'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
    But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

    Like her delusive beam,
        'Twill steal away thy mind:
    But, truer than love's dream,
        It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
    These flowers were culled at noon;--
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
    But, ah! not half so soon.
        For though the flower's decayed,
            Its fragrance is not o'er;
        But once when love's betrayed,
            Its sweet life blooms no more.

Thomas Moore