Inconstancy.

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
    When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me--
    And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
    And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,
    And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
    He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute--
    If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.

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 VII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Correspondence Between A Lady And Gentleman, Upon The Advantage Of (What Is Called) "Having Law[1] On One's Side."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Iii. The Torch Of Liberty.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Written On Passing Deadman's Island, In The Gulf Of St. Lawrence,[1] Late In The Evening, September, 1804.

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.

Woman.

Away, away--you're all the same,
    A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
    To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
    From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
    Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
    More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
    Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
    Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
    If e'er I love such things again.

Thomas Moore

To Julia.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,
    A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
    Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;
    Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?
    And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined
    That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;
Julia!--'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
    You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms
    A joy in which affection takes no part?
No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,
    When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

Thomas Moore

Boat Glee.

The song that lightens the languid way,
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
    As we row along thro' the waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
    That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
    With an eye that feeling gave;--
For him there's a story in every breeze,
    And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray.

            *            *            *            *            *

'Tis sweet...

Thomas Moore

To Julia.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
    Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
    And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed?
    Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
    To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she, too, mourn?--Perhaps she may;
    Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
    If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow
    Of gladness in her blue eye beaming--
But can the bosom bleed with woe
    While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!--Yet, love, I will not chide;
    Although your heart were fond of roving,
Nor that, nor all the world ...

Thomas Moore

To .......

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,
    While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow
    One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;
    Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,--
    I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,
    Doom me not thus so soon to fall
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,--
    But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold
    As ever yet allured and swayed,
And couldst, without a sigh, behold
    The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,--could I think that, truly fond,
    That eye but once would smile on me,
Even as thou art, how far beyond
   ...

Thomas Moore

When First I Met Thee.

When first I met thee, warm and young,
    There shone such truth about thee.
And on thy lip such promise hung,
    I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw the change, yet still relied,
    Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho' false to all beside,
    From me thou couldst not wander.
        But go, deceiver! go,
            The heart, whose hopes could make it
        Trust one so false, so low,
            Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
    I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
    Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
    Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
    Would then have...

Thomas Moore