Come O'er The Sea.

        Come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Come wherever the wild wind blows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

        Was not the sea
        Made for the Free,
    Land for courts and chains alone?
        Here we are slaves,
        But, on the waves,
    Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us--
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

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

Remember Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Dog-Day Reflections. By A Dandy Kept In Town.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Avenging And Bright.

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.

Sail On, Sail On.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark--
    Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
    More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
    "Tho' death beneath our smile may be,
    Less cold we are, less false than they,
    Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space--
    Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting place
    To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or--if some desert land we meet,
    Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,--
    Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

Thomas Moore

The Halcyon Hangs O'er Ocean.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean,
    The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world's all in motion,
    No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places,
    With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
    When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven
    Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given,--
    Oh, what a doom is this!

Thomas Moore

As Slow Our Ship.

As slow our ship her foamy track
    Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
    To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
    From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
    To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
    We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
    So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
    Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
    To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet
    Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
    And naught but love is wanting;
We think...

Thomas Moore

Here, Take My Heart.

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping,
    While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
    What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
    They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
    And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
    I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
    I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder--
    For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her,
    As long as my heart'...

Thomas Moore

The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.^[1]


When freshly blows the northern gale,
    And under courses snug we fly;
Or when light breezes swell the sail,
    And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
    I stand, and, as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
    I think of her I love, and cry,
        Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
    Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go.
    And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
    My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
    I watch the sails and sighing say,
        Thus, my boy! thus.

...

Thomas Moore

Oh, Soon Return.

Our white sail caught the evening ray,
    The wave beneath us seemed to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say,
    Was, "Oh, soon return!"
Thro' many a clime our ship was driven
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,
    Now sunned in summer's zone:
And still, where'er we bent our way,
    When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
    "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found
    Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,
'Twas when the combat raged around,
    And brave men looked to me.
But tho' the war-field's wild alarm
    For gentle love was all unmeet,
He lent to glory's brow the charm,
    Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when victory's calm came o'e...

Thomas Moore