Avenging And Bright.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin^[1]
    On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed!
For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,
    A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,^[2]
    When Ulad's^[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore--
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
    Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore--

We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted,
    The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
    Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,
    Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
    Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

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

New Grand Exhibition Of Models Of The Two Houses Of Parliament.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Epigram. Dialogue Between A Catholic Delegate And His Royal Highness The Duke Of Cumberland.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Morality. A Familiar Epistle.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Inconstancy.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

The Song Of O'Ruark, Prince Of Breffni.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me,
    Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
    That saddened the joy of my mind.
I looked for the lamp which, she told me,
    Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned;
But, tho' darkness began to infold me,
    No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely,
    As if the loved tenant lay dead;--
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
    But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
    My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand, that had waked it so often,
    Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,
    When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro'...

Thomas Moore

War Song. Remember The Glories Of Brien The Brave.[1]

Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
    Tho' the days of the hero are o'er;
Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,^[2]
    He returns to Kinkora no more.^[3]
That star of the field, which so often hath poured
    Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
    To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
    Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
    The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
    Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
    Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood^[4]<...

Thomas Moore

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

As Vanquished Erin.

As vanquished Erin wept beside
    The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
    Had dropt his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,
    "Where mortal eye may shun you;
"Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts,
    "That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,--
    As Time too well hath taught her--
Each year the Fiend returns again,
    And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
    His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, winged with worse than death,
    Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
    Even now, beside that river--
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
    And stored is still his quiver.
"When will this end, y...

Thomas Moore

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
    Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead--
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
    Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
    And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
    Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
    At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.^[1]
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations--how sw...

Thomas Moore

How Oft Has The Banshee Cried.

        How oft has the Banshee cried,
        How oft has death untied
        Bright links that Glory wove,
        Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
        Long may the fair and brave
        Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

        We're fallen upon gloomy days!^[1]
        Star after star decays,
        Every bright name, that shed
        Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
        But brightly flows the tear,
        Wept o'er a hero's bier.

        Quenched are our beacon lights--
        Thou, of the Hundred Fights!^[2]
        Thou, on whose burning tongue
   ...

Thomas Moore