No, Not More Welcome.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
    Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
    He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,--
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
    This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
    To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
    Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
    Of my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!--
    I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
    By such benign, blessed sounds again.

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

To Rosa.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter X. From The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, To The Rev. ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Boston Frigate, On Leaving Halifax For England,[1] October, 1804.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

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.

Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
    Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
    Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
    Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
    When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
    My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
    Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
    Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Thomas Moore

The Voice.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!
"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,
"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"
And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke,
For still fr...

Thomas Moore

Wake Up, Sweet Melody.

    Wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power,
One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray--
Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

    Ask the fond nightingale,
        When his sweet flower
    Loves most to hear his song,
        In her green bower?
Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long,
Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

Thomas Moore

My Gentle Harp.

My gentle harp, once more I waken
    The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
    And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
    But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
    Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
    An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
    With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
    Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
    She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
    My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morni...

Thomas Moore

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
    Thus sung I to a maiden,
        Who slept one summer's day,
    And, like a flower overladen
        With too much sunshine, lay.
            Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
    Thus sing I, while, awaking,
        She murmurs words that seem
    As if her lips were taking
        Farewell of some sweet dream.
            Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

Thomas Moore

The Stranger.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger
    Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;
Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger
    Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
    Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,
    Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,
    A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;
So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
    Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;--
    But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,
With wonder we saw this b...

Thomas Moore