Here Sleeps The Bard. (Highland Air.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well
All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;
Whether its music rolled like torrents near.
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.
Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;--
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

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

How Oft Has The Banshee Cried.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Take Back The Virgin Page.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Shine Out, Stars!

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Police Reports. Case Of Imposture.

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.

The World Was Husht.

The world was husht, the moon above
    Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
    Thus I whispered lowly,--
"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
    "The field I seek to-morrow
"Is one where man hath fame to reap,
    "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.
    Thus spoke a voice replying,
"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
    "Will sit here idly sighing.
"No--woman's soul, if not for fame,
    "For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
    A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,
    Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
    Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,...

Thomas Moore

Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
        Of her he loves--
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
        That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
        In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
        To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
        To pleasure's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
        Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
        In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow

Thomas Moore

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
    Thus sung I to a maiden,
        Who slept one summer's day,
    And, like a flower overladen
        With too much sunshine, lay.
            Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
    Thus sing I, while, awaking,
        She murmurs words that seem
    As if her lips were taking
        Farewell of some sweet dream.
            Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

Thomas Moore

The Voice.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!
"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,
"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"
And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke,
For still fr...

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

Silence Is In Our Festal Halls.

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Silence is in our festal halls,--
    Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
    Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
    Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
    At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
    Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
    Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
    When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
    Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
    The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this part...

Thomas Moore