Like One Who, Doomed.

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas
    His weary path to measure,
When home at length, with favoring breeze,
    He brings the far-sought treasure;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,
    That shore to which he hasted;
And all the wealth he thought his own
    Is o'er the waters wasted!

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track
    Of toil and sorrow straying,
One hope alone brought fondly back,
    Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas, I see that ray
    Of hope before me perish,
And one dark minute sweep away
    What years were given to cherish.

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

Alarming Intelligence! Revolution In The Dictionary--One Galt At The Head Of It.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Speech On The Umbrella Question.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVIII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Drink Of This Cup.

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.

As Slow Our Ship.

As slow our ship her foamy track
    Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
    To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
    From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
    To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
    We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
    So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
    Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
    To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet
    Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
    And naught but love is wanting;
We think...

Thomas Moore

The Halcyon Hangs O'er Ocean.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean,
    The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world's all in motion,
    No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places,
    With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
    When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven
    Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given,--
    Oh, what a doom is this!

Thomas Moore

Hope Comes Again.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
    Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger
    In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
    Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
    O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
    Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.
    But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest.

Thomas Moore

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
    As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
    That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
    Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
    I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
    Been like our Lagenian mine,^[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
    All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
    Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
    Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,^[2]
    That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
    Has Hope been ...

Thomas Moore

The Exile.

Night waneth fast, the morning star
    Saddens with light the glimmering sea,
Whose waves shall soon to realms afar
    Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.
Coldly the beam from yonder sky
    Looks o'er the waves that onward stray;
But colder still the stranger's eye
    To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak,
    Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;
But of the lost one think and speak,
    When summer suns sink calm to rest.
So, as I wander, Fancy's dream
    Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,
Thy look in every melting beam,
    Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

Thomas Moore

Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
    So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
    To dim a heaven so purely bright--
I sigh to think how soon that brow
    In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
    Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,
    The ruined hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
    A chilled or burning heart behind:--
While youth, that now like snow appears,
    Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears
    Can ever shine so bright again.

Thomas Moore