Oh For The Swords Of Former Time!

Oh for the swords of former time!
    Oh for the men who bore them,
When armed for Right, they stood sublime,
    And tyrants crouched before them:
When free yet, ere courts began
With honors to enslave him,
The best honors worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, etc.

Oh for the kings who flourished then!
    Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
    Were all the ramparts round them.
When, safe built on bosoms true,
    The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew,
    That Treason durst not enter.
Oh for the kings who flourished then!
    Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
    Were all the ramparts round them!

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

No--Leave My Heart To Rest.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rhymes On The Road. Extract IV. Milan.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Happy, Once.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Miss Moore. From Norfolk, In Virginia, November, 1803.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Oh, The Sight Entrancing.

Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing,
        O'er files arrayed
        With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
        That song, whose breath
        May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
    O'er files arrayed
    With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather--
For ask yon despot, whether
    His plumed bands
    Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em--
Give man but heart and freedom,
    And proud he braves
    The gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs...

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

Weep On, Weep On.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
    Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
    And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
    The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;--
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
    It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days,
    They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
    That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruined isle,
    Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
    Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
    "Your web of discord wove;
"And while your tyrants joined in hate,
    "You never joined in love.
"But heart...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VII. From Phelim Connor To--.

Before we sketch the Present--let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;--
When, loosed as if by magic from a chain
That seemed like Fate's the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;--
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sighed for justice--liberty--repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;--Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in ...

Thomas Moore

Lay His Sword By His Side.

Lay his sword by his side,^[1]--it hath served him too well
    Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
    Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
    Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
    And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
    As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
    Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
    "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
    ...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter IV. From Phelim Connor To ----

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there^[1]--
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!--let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your .            .            .            .^[2]
            .            .            .            .            .
Still hope a...

Thomas Moore