Fanny, Dearest.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
    Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
    To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
    So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
    Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
    Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
    Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
    Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,
    If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
    Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
    That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
    Fanny, dearest--the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
    I shall never attempt it with rain.

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

Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Thomas Hume, Esq., M. D.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ode To Don Miguel.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .... .... On Seeing Her With A White Veil And A Rich Girdle.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Song. Fanny, Dearest.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
    Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
    To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
    So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
    Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
    Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
    Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
    Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
    If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
    Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
    That I keep my eye-beams clear.<...

Thomas Moore

When On The Lip The Sigh Delays.

When on the lip the sigh delays,
    As if 'twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
    Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
    There's one we dream of more than any--
If all this is not real love,
    'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
    On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
    Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,
    The only moon, where stars are many--
If all this is not downright love,
    I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
    Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
...

Thomas Moore

Love And Reason.

        Quand l'homme commence à raissonner,
        il cesse de sentir.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.


'Twas in the summer time so sweet,
    When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That--who, of all the world, should meet,
    One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
    While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
    And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
    While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
    A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past,
    Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast
Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain...

Thomas Moore

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore

One Dear Smile.

Couldst thou look as dear as when
    First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed thee then,
    Oh, how blissful life would be!
Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
    Joys that lie in slumber cold--
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
    One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now,
    But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow--
Never yet did Heaven allow
    Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me--
    Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
    One dear smile like those of old

Thomas Moore

Boat Glee.

The song that lightens the languid way,
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
    As we row along thro' the waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
    That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
    With an eye that feeling gave;--
For him there's a story in every breeze,
    And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray.

            *            *            *            *            *

'Tis sweet...

Thomas Moore