In Myrtle Wreaths. By Alcaeus.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
    Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
    Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
    Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
    Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
    Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'
    And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story
    Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
    Your meed, a nation free!

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 Shrine. To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Cotton And Corn. A Dialogue.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Cherries. A Parable.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Legend Of Puck The Fairy.

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.

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

Lay His Sword By His Side.

Lay his sword by his side,^[1]--it hath served him too well
    Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
    Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
    Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
    And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
    As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
    Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
    "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
    ...

Thomas Moore

Hymn To Aristogeiton And Harmodius

I

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword Ill conceal,
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.

II

Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home,
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.

III

In fresh myrtle my blade Ill entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyrannys blood.

IV

Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Libertys wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!

Edgar Allan Poe

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned;
And so repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms,
The angry infant flew to arms;
He slung his quiver's golden frame,
He took his bow; his shafts of flame,
And proudly summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted, too;
Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,...

Thomas Moore

Peace And Glory.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.


Where is now the smile, that lightened
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph ...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXVI.

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn.
'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;
No--'twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quivered Cupids flew;^[1]
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!

Thomas Moore