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

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

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

They Met But Once.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ode To Don Miguel.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Francis, Earl Of Moira.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Tell Her, Oh, Tell Her.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

Thomas Moore

My Gentle Harp.

My gentle harp, once more I waken
    The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
    And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
    But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
    Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
    An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
    With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
    Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
    She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
    My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morni...

Thomas Moore

The Garland I Send Thee.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.

The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

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

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

Song.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
    Is fair--but oh, how fair,
If Pity's hand had stolen from Love
One leaf, to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
    Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where Love had sighed
    Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove,--the wreath you wove
    Our emblem well may be;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love
    Must keep its tears for me.

Thomas Moore