From The Greek Of Meleager.

Fill high the cup with liquid flame,
And speak my Heliodora's name.
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Live in the breeze, till every tone,
And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there,
    It was but last delicious night,
It circled her luxuriant hair,
    And caught her eyes' reflected light.
Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,
'Tis all of her that's left me now.
And see--each rosebud drops a tear,
To find the nymph no longer here--
No longer, where such heavenly charms
As hers should be--within these arms.

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

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XIII. Rome.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Cupid Armed.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Day-Dream.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Magic Mirror.

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.

Hymn Of A Virgin Of Delphi, At The Tomb Of Her Mother.

Oh, lost, forever lost--no more
    Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
    To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempe's distant vale
    In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
    To bear the mystic chaplets home.^[1]

'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
    By nature warmed and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
    The breathings of a Deity.
Guide of my heart! still hovering round.
    Thy looks, thy words are still my own--
I see thee raising from the ground
    Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
    Was planted for a doom divine;
And, though it droop in languor now,
    Shall flourish on the Delphic s...

Thomas Moore

The Fall Of Hebe. A Dithyrambic Ode.

            'Twas on a day
When the immortals at their banquet lay;
            The bowl
    Sparkled with starry dew,
The weeping of those myriad urns of light,
    Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power,
    At nature's dawning hour,
Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul.
            Around,
Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight
            From eastern isles
(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray,
And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled).
In circles flew, and, melting as they flew,
A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.

            All, all was luxury!
    All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles.
        His locks divine
            Were crowned
        With a bright meteor-braid,
Which, lik...

Thomas Moore

A Dream Of Antiquity.

I just had turned the classic page.
    And traced that happy period over,
When blest alike were youth and age,
And love inspired the wisest sage,
    And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep
    Awhile I from the lattice gazed
Upon that still and moonlight deep,
    With isles like floating gardens raised,
For Ariel there his sports to keep;
While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores
The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,--so strongly fancy's power
Came o'er me in that witching hour,--
As if the whole bright scenery there
    Were lighted by a Grecian sky,
And I then breathed the blissful air
    That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,--and when Sleep
    Came o'er my ...

Thomas Moore

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXII.

^[1]


Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be--
Drest for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

    Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal;
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,
Affect the still, cold sense of death?
Oh no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, wh...

Thomas Moore

The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

        Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
        CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.


    There lies a shell beneath the waves,
    In many a hollow winding wreathed,
            Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
            This magic shell,
    From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
            Sicilia's sands of gold.
                It bears
    Upon its shining side the mystic notes
        Of those entrancing airs,^[1]
    The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!
    Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
            And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

    Go, ...

Thomas Moore