Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)

Oh, no--not even when first we loved,
    Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
    But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
    Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more,
    Trust me, I love thee better now.

Altho' my heart in earlier youth
    Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
    Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
    That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seemed to love thee more,
    Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

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

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Viii. Louis Fourteenth's Wig.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Sail On, Sail On.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh! Blame Not The Bard.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Oft, When Watching Stars. (Savoyard Air.)

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.

Thou Lovest No More.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
    Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
    Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
    The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
    'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
    I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now--alas! there's no deceiving,
    'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
    As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
    Or bring back him who loves no more.

Thomas Moore

Did Not.

'Twas a new feeling--something more
Than we had dared to own before.
    Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
    To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch--
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
    And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
    Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
    Though gently bid not;
Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
    And yet, who did not.

Thomas Moore

To .... ....

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
    That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
    Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
    The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
    Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,
    And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
    Again to close it on my breast;--

Yes,--these are minutes all thine own,
    Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
    The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
    When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
    Like me was...

Thomas Moore

Love's Light Summer-Cloud.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us--
    Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
    Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.
        Oh, if to love thee more
        Each hour I number o'er--
        If this a passion be
        Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
    Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
    Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,
    Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;
Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,
    Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.
            Oh, if there be a charm,
            In love, to banish harm--
            If pleas...

Thomas Moore

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
    Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
    Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art.
    Let thy loveliness fade as it will.
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
    Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
    And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
    To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
    But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
    The same look which she turned when he rose.

Thomas Moore

Love's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore