Sing--Sing--Music Was Given.

Sing--sing--Music was given,
    To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
    By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
    But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
    At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
    Then sing--sing--Music was given,
        To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
    Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
        By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
    Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
    "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
    Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,
    While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
    Then sing--sing--Music was given,
        To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
    Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
        By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

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 Voice.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

I Love But Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Pastoral Ballad.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ode To The Goddess Ceres.

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.

Thou Bidst Me Sing.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

Thomas Moore

On Music.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
    Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
    In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
    Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
    In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
    Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
    That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
    Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
    Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
    Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
    When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's ...

Thomas Moore

The Night Dance.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
    And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
    Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
    That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
            Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
    In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
    And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
    And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
    And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hea...

Thomas Moore

Beauty And Song.

Down in yon summer vale,
    Where the rill flows.
Thus said a Nightingale
    To his loved Rose:--
"Tho' rich the pleasures
"Of song's sweet measures,
"Vain were its melody,
"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess
    Of her night-bower,
Beaming with bashfulness,
    Spoke the bright flower:--
"Tho' morn should lend her
"Its sunniest splendor,
"What would the Rose be,
"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend
    Woman's bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
    Light to the lay.
Like stars thro' heaven's sea
Floating in harmony
Beauty should glide along
Circled by Song.

Thomas Moore

To Miss Susan Beckford.[1] On Her Singing.

I more than once have heard at night
    A song like those thy lip hath given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,
    Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep.
    And I have said when morning shone:--
"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep
    "These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent
    Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
    A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze
    Through which my path of life has led,
When I have heard the sweetest lays
    From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word
    From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying
With music's own melodious bird;

Thomas Moore

Tho' Lightly Sounds The Song I Sing. A Song Of The Alps.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay--
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,--
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

Thomas Moore