Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
    What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
    By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
    Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
    Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
    Such shadows will all be omitted:--
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
    Each spot where it hath flitted.

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

They Tell Me Thou'rt The Favored Guest.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Come Not, Oh Lord. (Air.--Haydn.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

What Shall I Sing Thee?

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Impromptu, On Leaving Some Friends.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle Of Our Own.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers;
    Where the sun loves to pause
        With so fond a delay,
    That the night only draws
        A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.
    With affection as free
        From decline as the bowers,
    And, with hope, like the bee,
        Living always ...

Thomas Moore

They May Rail At This Life.

They may rail at this life--from the hour I began it,
    I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;
And, until they can show me some happier planet,
    More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,
    As before me this moment enraptured I see,
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,
    But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them
    New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,
Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,
    They've none, even there, more enamored than I.
And as long as this harp can be wakened to love,
    And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,...

Thomas Moore

The Summer Webs.

The summer webs that float and shine,
    The summer dews that fall,
Tho' light they be, this heart of mine
    Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
    Which lately seemed to lour;
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,
    And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above,
    With naught to wake one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love
    Were at this moment nigh,--
It seems as if life's brilliant sun
    Had stopt in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,
And rest in radiance here.

Thomas Moore

Let's Take This World As Some Wide Scene.

Let's take this world as some wide scene.
    Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat,
With skies now dark and now serene,
    Together thou and I must float;
Beholding oft on either shore
    Bright spots where we should love to stay;
But Time plies swift his flying oar,
    And away we speed, away, away.

Should chilling winds and rains come on,
    We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower;
Sit closer till the storm is gone,
    And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour.
And if that sunnier hour should shine,
    We'll know its brightness cannot stay,
But happy while 'tis thine and mine,

    Complain not when it fades away.
So shall we reach at last that Fall
    Down which life's currents all must go,--
The dark, the brilliant, destined all

Thomas Moore

If In Loving, Singing.

If in loving, singing, night and day
We could trifle merrily life away,
Like atoms dancing in the beam,
Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream,
Or summer blossoms, born to sigh
Their sweetness out, and die--
How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,
Thou and I could make our minutes glide!
No atoms ever glanced so bright,
No day-flies ever danced so light,
Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh,
So close, as thou and I!

Thomas Moore

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore