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

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

Who Is The Maid? St. Jerome's Love. (Air.--Beethoven.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Dream Of Antiquity.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Sylph's Ball.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Annual Pill.

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.

Hark! 'Tis The Breeze. (Air.--Rousseau.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling;
    Earth's weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
    Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
    Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
    From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
    Thou who in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
    Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
    Our souls awhile from life withdrawn
May in their darkness stilly, purely,
    Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

Thomas Moore

See, The Dawn From Heaven. (To An Air Sung At Rome, On Christmas Eve.)

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking
    O'er our sight,
And Earth from sin awaking,
    Hails the light!
See those groups of angels, winging
    From the realms above,
On their brows, from Eden, bringing
    Wreaths of Hope and Love.

Hark, their hymns of glory pealing
    Thro' the air,
To mortal ears revealing
    Who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly,
    Sleeps the Heavenly Son,
He, whose home's above,--the Holy,
    Ever Holy One!

Thomas Moore

Stanzas.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.
Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
    Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead;
And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,
    As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone
    My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
    Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire
    The pearl of the soul may be melted away;
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire
    We inherit from heaven, may be quenched ...

Thomas Moore

As Down In The Sunless Retreats. (Air.--Haydn.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean,
    Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
    Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
        My God! silent to Thee--
        Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,

As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded,
    The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
    The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
        My GOD! trembling to Thee--
        True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

Thomas Moore

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

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