Sail On, Sail On.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark--
    Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
    More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
    "Tho' death beneath our smile may be,
    Less cold we are, less false than they,
    Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space--
    Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting place
    To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or--if some desert land we meet,
    Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,--
    Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

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

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Iii. The Torch Of Liberty.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter II. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of Hercules To His Daughter.

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 Indian Boat.

        'Twas midnight dark,
        The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
        When, thro' the night,
        He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
    "She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
    "With her freight of golden ore;
        "Sail on! sail on!"
        When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
        But, though so fast
        The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.

        Bright daylight came,
        And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
        While on the prize
        His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
    While the waves overtop the mast;

Thomas Moore

Come O'er The Sea.

        Come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Come wherever the wild wind blows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

        Was not the sea
        Made for the Free,
    Land for courts and chains alone?
        Here we are slaves,
        But, on the waves,
    Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven aro...

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

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'e...

Thomas Moore

To The Boston Frigate, On Leaving Halifax For England,[1] October, 1804.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,
And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.
Well--peace to the land! may her sons know, at length,
That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength,
That though man be as free as the fetterless wind,
As the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast,
If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past,
Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,--
Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret:
May they sometimes recall, wha...

Thomas Moore

The Halcyon Hangs O'er Ocean.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean,
    The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world's all in motion,
    No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places,
    With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
    When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven
    Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given,--
    Oh, what a doom is this!

Thomas Moore