Lusitanian War-Song.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till not one hateful link remains
    Of slavery's lingering chains;
    Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
    No! never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
    "Your cloud of foes hath past away,
    "And Freedom comes with new-born ray
"To gild your vines and light your fountains."
    Oh, never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

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

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Lines On The Departure Of Lord Castlereagh And Stewart For The Continent.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Dear Fanny.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

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.

Peace And Glory.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.


Where is now the smile, that lightened
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph ...

Thomas Moore

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

The Parting Before The Battle.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed,
    To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
    Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
    May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
    To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field,
    Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
    Or shine upon our graves.

Thomas Moore

The Minstrel-Boy.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
    In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on.
    And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
    "Tho' all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
    "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain
    Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
    For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
    "Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
    "They shall never sound in slavery."

Thomas Moore

Song Of The Battle Eve.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
    There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
    And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
    We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
    When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
    With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
    With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
    Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
    But--no matter--grasp thy sword and a...

Thomas Moore

Greek Air

        List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
        While, from Ilissus' silvery springs,
    She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;
And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
    Dreams of bright days that never can return;
        When Athens nurst her olive bough
            With hands by tyrant power unchained;
        And braided for the muse's brow
            A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.
        When heroes trod each classic field
            Where coward feet now faintly falter;
        When every arm was Freedom's shield,
            And every heart was Freedom's altar!

Thomas Moore