Rings And Seals.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once betrayed,
"Never can this wronged heart rely
"On word or look, on oath or sigh.
"Take back the gifts, so fondly given,
"With promised faith and vows to heaven;
"That little ring which, night and morn,
"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
"That seal which oft, in moments blest,
"Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
"And sworn its sacred spring should be
"A fountain sealed^[1] for only thee:
"Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
"All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

    I took the ring--the seal I took,
While, oh, her every tear and look
Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled.
Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear!
"Not half thy lover's gifts are here:
"Say, where are all the kisses given,
"From morn to noon, from noon to even,--
"Those signets of true love, worth more
"Than Solomon's own seal of yore,--
"Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many?
"Come, dearest,--give back all, if any."
    While thus I whispered, trembling too,
Lest all the nymph had sworn was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise
Mid the moist azure of her eyes,
Like daylight o'er a sea of blue,
While yet in mid-air hangs the dew
She let her cheek repose on mine,
She let my arms around her twine;
One kiss was half allowed, and then--
The ring and seal were hers again.

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

See, The Dawn From Heaven. (To An Air Sung At Rome, On Christmas Eve.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Insurrection Of The Papers. A Dream.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Youth And Age.

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.

The Ring.

TO .... ....


No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
    Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
    May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
    Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;
Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,
    To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,--
    Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
    Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,
    Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go--hie thee to the sage's book,
    And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,
    That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as ...

Thomas Moore

Song.

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art
In passion's moment breathed to me;
Yet, no--it must not, will not part,
'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,
And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
    With all the warmth of truth imprest;
Yet, no--the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,
    Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day,
    My heart received, I thought, from thine;
Yet, no--allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,
    As sweetly as they've ruined mine.

Thomas Moore

A Study From The Antique.

Behold, my love, the curious gem
    Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
    Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
    Upon her hand this gem displayed,
Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse
    Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design!
    The more we gaze, it charms the more;
Come--closer bring that cheek to mine,
    And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth
    By some enamored nymph embraced--
Look, as she leans, and say in sooth
    Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind
    It seems in careless play to lie,
Yet presses gently, half inclined
    To bring the truant's ...

Thomas Moore

The Wreath And The Chain.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain,
    I bring thee too a flowery wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
    The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads,
    Bright as Minerva's yellow hair,
When the last beam of evening sheds
    Its calm and sober lustre there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
    With sunlit drops of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love,
    To heal his lip when bees have stung it.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
    Which answers when the tongue is loath,
Thou likest the form of either tie,
    And spreadest thy ...

Thomas Moore

When First I Met Thee.

When first I met thee, warm and young,
    There shone such truth about thee.
And on thy lip such promise hung,
    I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw the change, yet still relied,
    Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho' false to all beside,
    From me thou couldst not wander.
        But go, deceiver! go,
            The heart, whose hopes could make it
        Trust one so false, so low,
            Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
    I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
    Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
    Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
    Would then have...

Thomas Moore

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore