Oh Banquet Not.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
    Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
    More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
    And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
    Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
    Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
    To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
    Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
    Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

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

Epilogue. Written For Lady Dacre's Tragedy Of Ina.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When Love Is Kind.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Teach Me To Love Thee. (Air.--Haydn.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Mad Tory And The Comet.

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.

Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
    Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
    Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
    Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
    Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
    Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
    Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
    Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
    Bright to the last drop flowing!

Thomas Moore

Anacreontic.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
    'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
    But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

    Like her delusive beam,
        'Twill steal away thy mind:
    But, truer than love's dream,
        It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
    These flowers were culled at noon;--
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
    But, ah! not half so soon.
        For though the flower's decayed,
            Its fragrance is not o'er;
        But once when love's betrayed,
            Its sweet life blooms no more.

Thomas Moore

And Doth Not A Meeting Like This.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
    For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
    As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
    The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
    We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
    In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
    Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
    When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
    The warmth of...

Thomas Moore

Here's The Bower.

Here's the bower she loved so much,
    And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
    Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
    Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
    Where's the lip to breathe them?
                Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
    Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
    Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
    Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
    Nor Pity wept a dearer!
                Here's the bower, etc.

Thomas Moore

Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
    And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
    Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow.
No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours,
    Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
    Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile--
    May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
    And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
    If it were not with friendship and love intertwined:
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
    When the...

Thomas Moore

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore