Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee?

Love thee, dearest? love thee?
    Yes, by yonder star I swear,
Which thro' tears above thee
    Shines so sadly fair;
Tho' often dim,
With tears, like him,
Like him my truth will shine,
    And--love thee, dearest? love thee?
Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee?
    No, that star is not more true;
When my vows deceive thee,
    He will wander too.
A cloud of night
May veil his light,
And death shall darken mine--
    But--leave thee, dearest? leave thee?
No, till death I'm thine.

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

There Is A Bleak Desert. (Air.--Crescentini.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The "Living Dog" And "The Dead Lion."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Turf Shall Be My Fragrant Shrine. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of Hercules To His Daughter.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Love Thee?

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly
    Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
    Were worthless without thee.
Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
    Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
    I'd spurn the draft away.
Love thee?--so well, so tenderly,
    Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
    Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot
    To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, even the humblest cot
    Were brighter than his throne.
Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
    For me would have no charms;
My only world thy gentle eyes--
    My throne thy circling arms!
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
    Thou'rt...

Thomas Moore

Dear? Yes.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more,
    Even this but makes thee dearer;
And love, since hope is o'er,
    But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me,
The same thy charm must be;
New loves may come to weave
    Their witchery o'er thee,
Yet still, tho' false, believe
    That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.
Think'st thou that aught but death could end
A tie not falsehood's self can rend?
No, when alone, far off I die,
    No more to see, no more cares thee,
Even then, my life's last sigh
    Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

Thomas Moore

I Love But Thee.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
    And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
    By every dream I have when thou'rt away,
By every throb I feel when thou art near me,
    I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
    Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
    Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
    I love but thee--I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes,
    As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,
And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses
    A hue too bright to bless this world below,
And only fit to ...

Thomas Moore

Love Thee, Dearest!

Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never
Will my fond vows be forgot!
May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
Turn not from me, dearest!--Listen!
Banish all thy doubts and fears!
Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me,
Love's bright flame is burning still!
Though the hollow world deceive thee,
Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!
Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow,
Hymen's bond will make us one!

George Pope Morris

When He, Who Adores Thee.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
    Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
    Of a life that for thee was resigned?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
    Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,
    I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
    Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
    Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live
    The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
    Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

Thomas Moore

Remember Thee.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons--
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Thomas Moore