Is It Not Sweet To Think, Hereafter. (Air.--Haydn.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
    When the Spirit leaves this sphere.
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
    To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever.
    Eyes this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
    Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking
    Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,
    Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger
    Pointing to the eternal Home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
    Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us?
    Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
    Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given,
    To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
    Where all we love shall live again?

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

Tout Pour La Tripe.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Sir Hudson Lowe.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Cara, On The Dawning Of A New Year's Day.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Lord Viscount Strangford.

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.

Weep Not For Those. (Air.--Avison.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
    'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
    To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,^[1]
    Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre ...

Thomas Moore

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

Then, Fare Thee Well. (Old English Air.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
    This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
    The pain of parting thus,
            Dear love!
    The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
    Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
    The deep, deep pain of this,
            Dear love!
    The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen
    One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
    And chased it all away,
            Dear love!
    And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last,
    Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
    Than years of mirth apart,
            Dear lo...

Thomas Moore

Sweet Innisfallen.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
    May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,--
    To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
    In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
    When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
    Who had to turn to paths of care--
Through crowded haunts again to run,
    And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,
    But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
    Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
    To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
    L...

Thomas Moore

Fear Not That, While Around Thee.

Fear not that, while around thee
    Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
    Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
    Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
    Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
    Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
    But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
    Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
    For thy own peace forget.

Thomas Moore

To ......., 1801.

To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her prompt magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear:--
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remembered oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguiled,
Can proudly still aspire to be
All that may yet win smiles from thee:--
If thus to live in every part
Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ
Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it. Mary,--oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
Though, erring, it too oft betray
Even more than Love should dare to say,--
In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,
I...

Thomas Moore