Lord, Who Shall Bear That Day. (Air.--Dr. Boyce.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid,
    When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er
This sinful world with hand to heaven extended,
    And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?^[1]
When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded--
    "Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!"
And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,
    The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;^[2]
While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away^[3]--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?


When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever
    Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,
And say to those, "Depart from me for ever!"
    To these, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"^[4]
When each and all in silence take their way--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

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

War Song. Remember The Glories Of Brien The Brave.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Evening Gun.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How To Make A Good Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .......

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.

But Who Shall See. (Air.--Stevenson.)

But who shall see the glorious day
    When, throned on Zion's brow,
The LORD shall rend that veil away
    Which hides the nations now?^[1]
When earth no more beneath the fear
    Of this rebuke shall lie;^[2]
When pain shall cease, and every tear
    Be wiped from every eye.^[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn
    Beneath the heathen's chain;
Thy days of splendor shall return,
    And all be new again.^[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft
    In peace, by all who come;^[5]
And every wind that blows shall waft
    Some long-lost exile home.

Thomas Moore

Come Not, Oh Lord. (Air.--Haydn.)

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor
    Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire;
Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,
    Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!

LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation^[1]
    Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream;
O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,
    While Israel basked all the night in its beam.

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,
    From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
    Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!

Thomas Moore

Oh Thou Who Dry'st The Mourner's Tear. (Air.--Haydn.)

        "He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"
        --Psalm. cxlvii. 3.


Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
    How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
    We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
    When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
    Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
    Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
    Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
    And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
    Is dimmed and vanished too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
    Did not thy Wing of Love...

Thomas Moore

The Day Of The Lord

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:
    Its storms roll up the sky:
The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold;
    All dreamers toss and sigh;
The night is darkest before the morn;
When the pain is sorest the child is born,
    And the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, angels of God -
    Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth;
Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,
    Come down, and renew us her youth.
Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
    To the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell -
    Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,
    Gather, and fall in the snare!
Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,
Crawl...

Charles Kingsley

The Last Day.

The God of glory thundereth! who hath not heard His voice,
Bidding the sinner tremble, and the pure in heart rejoice?

Yes, yes, the sinner trembleth, for the Judge is on His throne,
Rendering to all a recompense for the deeds which they have done,
For the mercies they have slighted, and the time they have destroyed,
For the idols they have worshipped, and the talents misemployed.

But the pure in heart rejoiceth, because for him doth blend,
In the Judge of all the universe, a Saviour and a Friend;
He looketh up confidingly, with unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling says, "My Father, on Thy mercy I rely!"

The God of glory thundereth! How awful is His voice,
Bidding the sinner tremble, and the pure in heart rejoice?

Yes, yes, the sinner trembleth, for his robes ar...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Awake, Arise, Thy Light Is Come. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;^[1]
    The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb--
    The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray,
    From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
    Their homage to thy rising lustre.^[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see
    O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
    To thee return thy home-sick daughters.^[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents,
    Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
    To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.^[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,^[5]
    Are ...

Thomas Moore