At Night.

^[1]


At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
    Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
    That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
    Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
    With those we love exchanged at night!

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.

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The Stranger.

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The Irish Slave.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
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Guess wh...

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Nights Of Music.

Nights of music, nights of loving,
    Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
    Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
    All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
    Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
    From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
    Not a beam, a leaf may die!

Thomas Moore

Echo.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
    To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
    Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
    And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
    The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
    And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
    Breathed back again!

Thomas Moore

Oft, In The Stilly Night. (Scotch Air.)

Oft in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me;
        The smiles, the tears,
        Of boyhood's years,
    The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
    The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me.

When I remember all
    The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
    Like leaves in wintry weather;
        I feel like one,
        Who treads alone,
    Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
    And all but he departed!
Thu...

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At The Mid Hour Of Night

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear
When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,^[1]
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore

To Lord Viscount Strangford.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.


Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,^[1]
    By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,
    And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
    We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for k...

Thomas Moore