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

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking
    O'er our sight,
And Earth from sin awaking,
    Hails the light!
See those groups of angels, winging
    From the realms above,
On their brows, from Eden, bringing
    Wreaths of Hope and Love.

Hark, their hymns of glory pealing
    Thro' the air,
To mortal ears revealing
    Who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly,
    Sleeps the Heavenly Son,
He, whose home's above,--the Holy,
    Ever Holy One!

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 Philosopher Aristippus[1] To A Lamp Which Had Been Given Him By Lais.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tory Pledges.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Guess, Guess.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXIII.

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.

Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord--
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

Thomas Moore

Behold The Sun. (Air.--Lord Mornington.)

Behold the Sun, how bright
From yonder East he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke
Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose,
Stars clustered thro' the sky--
But oh how dim, how pale were those,
To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray,
    To bless the Pagan's night--
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
    To Thy One glorious Light!

Thomas Moore

Awake, Arise, Thy Light Is Come. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;^[1]
    The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb--
    The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray,
    From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
    Their homage to thy rising lustre.^[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see
    O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
    To thee return thy home-sick daughters.^[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents,
    Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
    To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.^[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,^[5]
    Are ...

Thomas Moore

Music On Christmas Morning

Music I love, but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine,
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel's voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those so...

Anne Bronte

Hark! 'Tis The Breeze. (Air.--Rousseau.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling;
    Earth's weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
    Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
    Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
    From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
    Thou who in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
    Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
    Our souls awhile from life withdrawn
May in their darkness stilly, purely,
    Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

Thomas Moore

But Who Shall See. (Air.--Stevenson.)

But who shall see the glorious day
    When, throned on Zion's brow,
The LORD shall rend that veil away
    Which hides the nations now?^[1]
When earth no more beneath the fear
    Of this rebuke shall lie;^[2]
When pain shall cease, and every tear
    Be wiped from every eye.^[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn
    Beneath the heathen's chain;
Thy days of splendor shall return,
    And all be new again.^[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft
    In peace, by all who come;^[5]
And every wind that blows shall waft
    Some long-lost exile home.

Thomas Moore