Love Is A Hunter-Boy. (Languedocian Air.)

Love is a hunter-boy,
    Who, makes young hearts his prey,
And in his nets of joy
    Ensnares them night and day.
In vain concealed they lie--
    Love tracks them every where;
In vain aloft they fly--
    Love shoots them flying there.

But 'tis his joy most sweet,
    At early dawn to trace
The print of Beauty's feet,
    And give the trembler chase.
And if, thro' virgin snow,
    He tracks her footsteps fair,
How sweet for Love to know
    None went before him there.

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

Poor Broken Flower.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Cupid Armed.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Bird, Let Loose. (Air.--Beethoven.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Moral Positions. A Dream.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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When Love Was A Child (Swedish Air.)

When Love was a child, and went idling round,
    'Mong flowers the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
    So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,
    A fountain ran darkly beneath;--
'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;
    Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.

But Love didn't know--and, at his weak years,
    What urchin was likely to know?--
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
    The fountain that murmured below.

He caught at the wreath--but with too much haste,
    As boys when impatient will do--
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
    And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day;
    And, tho' it...

Thomas Moore

Love, Wandering Thro' The Golden Maze.

Love, wandering through the golden maze
    Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
    And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
    His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie--
    A chain by beauty twined.

Thomas Moore

When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
    Were turning to fire.
Guess wh...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
    They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
    When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
    Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
    Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
    Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
    The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
    With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into...

Thomas Moore

Love's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore

The Language Of Flowers.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,
    To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
    The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
    Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
    The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they
    But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
    What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
    A towering lily broken,--
Oh these may paint a grief
    No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
    The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
    My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
    Than gems the richest, rarest,--
From Truth's i...

Thomas Moore