From Life Without Freedom.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains--
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

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 Wreath And The Chain.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Late Tithe Case.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of Innisfail.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Dear To Me The Hour.

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.

Forget Not The Field.

Forget not the field where they perished,
    The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone--and the bright hope we cherished
    Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover
    Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high heaven to fight over
    That combat for freedom once more;--

Could the chain for an instant be riven
    Which Tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
    To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past--and, tho' blazoned in story
    The name of our Victor may be,
Accurst is the march of that glory
    Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison,
    Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all, w...

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

After The Battle.

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
    And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
    Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
    For ever dimmed, for ever crost--
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
    When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
    And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watcht, till morning's beam
    Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
    Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;--
If death that world's bright opening be,
    Oh! who would live a slave in this?

Thomas Moore

The Parting Before The Battle.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed,
    To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
    Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
    May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
    To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field,
    Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
    Or shine upon our graves.

Thomas Moore

Lines On The Entry Of The Austrians Into Naples, 1821.

carbone notati.


Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
    From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
    Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,
    Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er--
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
    From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands
    Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
    Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
    Base slaves! let the whet of their ag...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XI. From Phelim Connor To ----.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate--
A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,
And own no power but of the Nation's choice!
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye.
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,^[1]
Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again--
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to tra...

Thomas Moore