Oh, Soon Return.

Our white sail caught the evening ray,
    The wave beneath us seemed to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say,
    Was, "Oh, soon return!"
Thro' many a clime our ship was driven
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,
    Now sunned in summer's zone:
And still, where'er we bent our way,
    When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
    "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found
    Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,
'Twas when the combat raged around,
    And brave men looked to me.
But tho' the war-field's wild alarm
    For gentle love was all unmeet,
He lent to glory's brow the charm,
    Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when victory's calm came o'er
    The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,
Those parting words I heard once more,
    "Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!"

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 Fudge Family In Paris Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----, Of Clonkilty, In Ireland.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Dear Fanny.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Prince's Day.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Remember Thee.

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.

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

In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lulled with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour,
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And blest them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I lingered from that home away,
How long the little absence seemed!
How bright the look of welcome beamed,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Bolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.
Which used so oft, so quick to come,
S...

Thomas Moore

As Slow Our Ship.

As slow our ship her foamy track
    Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
    To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
    From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
    To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
    We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
    So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
    Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
    To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet
    Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
    And naught but love is wanting;
We think...

Thomas Moore

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

The Exile.

Night waneth fast, the morning star
    Saddens with light the glimmering sea,
Whose waves shall soon to realms afar
    Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.
Coldly the beam from yonder sky
    Looks o'er the waves that onward stray;
But colder still the stranger's eye
    To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak,
    Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;
But of the lost one think and speak,
    When summer suns sink calm to rest.
So, as I wander, Fancy's dream
    Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,
Thy look in every melting beam,
    Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

Thomas Moore

Still When Daylight.

Still when daylight o'er the wave
Bright and soft its farewell gave,
I used to hear, while light was falling,
O'er the wave a sweet voice calling,
    Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come,
To meet her sea-boy hastening home;
And thro' the night those sounds repeating,
Hail his bark with joyous greeting,
    Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high,
Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry.
She saw his boat come tossing over
Midnight's wave,--but not her lover!
    No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loath to leave,
She comes with wandering mind at eve,
And oft we hear, when night is falling,
Faint her voice thro' twilight calling,
    Mournfully...

Thomas Moore

The World Was Husht.

The world was husht, the moon above
    Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
    Thus I whispered lowly,--
"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
    "The field I seek to-morrow
"Is one where man hath fame to reap,
    "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.
    Thus spoke a voice replying,
"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
    "Will sit here idly sighing.
"No--woman's soul, if not for fame,
    "For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
    A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,
    Herself before me beaming,
With casque arrayed and falchion blade
    Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,...

Thomas Moore