Here At Thy Tomb. By Meleager.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
    Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
    And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--

Wept in remembrance of that light.
    Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,
    But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough
    That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
    And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
    Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,--
    Gently, as in a mother's 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

Still, Like Dew In Silence Falling. By Meleager.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Lady Charlotte Rawdon.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode. LIV.

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.

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

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

When He, Who Adores Thee.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
    Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
    Of a life that for thee was resigned?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
    Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,
    I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
    Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
    Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live
    The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
    Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

Thomas Moore

Here's The Bower.

Here's the bower she loved so much,
    And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
    Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
    Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
    Where's the lip to breathe them?
                Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
    Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
    Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
    Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
    Nor Pity wept a dearer!
                Here's the bower, etc.

Thomas Moore

Weep Not For Those. (Air.--Avison.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
    'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
    To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,^[1]
    Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre ...

Thomas Moore

Remember Thee.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons--
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Thomas Moore