How Lightly Mounts The Muse'S Wing. (Air--Anonymous.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
    Whose theme is in the skies--
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
    The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune,
    Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
    Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute,
    Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
    And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be.,
    Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
    Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,
    Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
    No trophies but of Love!

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 Fudges In England. Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----; Curate Of ----, In Ireland.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XX.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Musical Box.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Greek Air

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.

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore

The Tell-Tale Lyre.

I've heard, there was in ancient days
    A Lyre of most melodious spell;
'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,
    If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs,
    And to their breath it breathed again
In such entrancing melodies
    As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch
    So stilly could the notes prolong;
They were not heavenly song so much
    As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air
    Along the chords in languor stole,
The numbers it awakened there
    Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light,
    Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,
    Soon whispered it to kind r...

Thomas Moore

Light Sounds The Harp.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,
    When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
    And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
        But, when the foe returns,
        Again the hero burns;
High flames the sword in his hand once more:
        The clang of mingling arms
        Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;--
Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over--
    When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom--
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
    And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
    Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armo...

Thomas Moore

To George Morgan, Esq. Of Norfolk, Virginia.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!--
    High mountain waves and foamy showers,
And battling winds whose savage blast
    But ill agrees with one whose hours
    Have past in old Anacreon's bowers,
Yet think not poesy's bright charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm;^[1]--
When close they reefed the timid sail,
    When, every plank complaining loud,
We labored in the midnight gale;
And even our haughty mainmast bowed,
Even then, in that unlovely hour,
The Muse still brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's Elysium lapt my mind.
Nay, when no numbers of my own
Responded to her wakening tone,
She opened, with her golden key,
    The casket where my memory lays
...

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

Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord--
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

Thomas Moore