Come, Play Me That Simple Air Again. A Ballad.

Come, play me that simple air again,
    I used so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
    Were wakened by that sweet lay
        The tender gloom its strain
            Shed o'er the heart and brow
        Grief's shadow without its pain--
            Say where, where is it now?
But play me the well-known air once more,
    For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain
Like dreams of some far, fairy shore
    We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back
    Some sunny hope, some daydream bright,
That, shining o'er life's early track,
    Filled even its tears with light.
        The new-found life that came
        With love's first echoed vow;--
    The fear, the bliss, the shame--
        Ah--where, where are they now?
But, still the same loved notes prolong,
    For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
    To breathe life's hour away.

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

The Kiss.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Reflections. Addressed To The Author Of The Article Of The Church In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Young Jessica.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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Suggested Poems

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Thou Bidst Me Sing.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

Thomas Moore

The Song Of The Olden Time.

There's a song of the olden time,
    Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
    Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
    When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
    Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
    Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
    Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,--
    Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
    Autumn's sere and faded bough,--
'Twill seem as still those friends were near,
    Who loved me in youth's early day,
If in that parting hour I hear
    The same sweet notes and die away,--
To that song of the olde...

Thomas Moore

If Thou Wouldst Have Me Sing And Play.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play,
    As once I played and sung,
First take this time-worn lute away,
    And bring one freshly strung.
Call back the time when pleasure's sigh
First breathed among the strings;
And Time himself, in flitting by.
    Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute,
    And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
    Or speak but dreamy words.
In vain I seek the soul that dwelt
    Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
    And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,
    From lyre so coldly strung;
With this I ne'er can sing or play,
    As once I played and sung.
No, bring that long-loved lute again,--

Thomas Moore

Love's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore

Oh, Come To Me When Daylight Sets. (Venetian Air.)

Oh, come to me when daylight sets;
    Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
    O'er the moonlight sea.
When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,
    Beneath that glancing ray,
With sound of lutes and mandolins,
    To steal young hearts away.
Then, come to me when daylight sets;
    Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
    O'er the moonlight sea.

Oh, then's the hour for those who love,
    Sweet, like thee and me;
When all's so calm below, above,
    In Heaven and o'er the sea.
When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles,
    And Echo sings again
So sweet, that all with ears and souls
    Should love and listen then.
So, come to me when daylight sets;
    Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our ...

Thomas Moore

On Music.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
    Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
    In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
    Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
    In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
    Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
    That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
    Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
    Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
    Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
    When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's ...

Thomas Moore