Oh! Breathe Not His Name.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

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

The Origin Of The Harp.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Tell-Tale Lyre.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Reuben And Rose. A Tale Of Romance.

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.

Elegiac Stanzas.

        Sic juvat perire.


When wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
    Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
    'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,--
None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,--
None but the whispering winds of heaven!

Thomas Moore

It Is Not The Tear At This Moment Shed.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed,
    When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
    Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
    'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
    When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,
    Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
    When we think how we lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
    Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
    From the image he left there in dying!

Thomas Moore

Fear Not That, While Around Thee.

Fear not that, while around thee
    Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
    Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
    Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
    Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
    Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
    But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
    Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
    For thy own peace forget.

Thomas Moore

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

Peace, Peace To Him That's Gone!

    When I am dead.
    Then lay my head
In some lone, distant dell,
    Where voices ne'er
    Shall stir the air,
Or break its silent spell.

    If any sound
    Be heard around,
Let the sweet bird alone,
    That weeps in song,
    Sing all night long,
"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

    Yet, oh, were mine
    One sigh of thine,
One pitying word from thee,
    Like gleams of heaven,
    To sinners given,
Would be that word to me.

    Howe'er unblest,
    My shade would rest
While listening to that tone;--
    Enough 'twould be
    To hear from thee,
"Peace, peace, to him that gone."

Thomas Moore

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