On The Death Of A Friend.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
    By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
    Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee--
So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm
    Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,
Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,
    Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

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 Wine-Cup Is Circling.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Eveleen's Bower.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter V.

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.

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

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

Lines On The Death Of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., Of Dublin.

If ever life was prosperously cast,
    If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
    'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.
    The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
    And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
    Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
    Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
    And brightens every gift by fortune given;
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
    Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his...

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

Her Last Words, At Parting.

Her last words, at parting, how can I forget?
    Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay;
Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet,
    When its sounds from the ear have long melted away.
Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain;
    Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,--
"Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,
    "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie,
    Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste,
He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply,
    Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste.
So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain,
    These words shall my well in the wilderness be,--
"Remember, in a...

Thomas Moore

Remember Thee.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons--
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Thomas Moore