Slumber, Oh Slumber.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
    Thus sung I to a maiden,
        Who slept one summer's day,
    And, like a flower overladen
        With too much sunshine, lay.
            Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
    Thus sing I, while, awaking,
        She murmurs words that seem
    As if her lips were taking
        Farewell of some sweet dream.
            Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

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

Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love And The Sun-Dial.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Exile.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Epilogue. Written For Lady Dacre's Tragedy Of Ina.

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.

Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
    Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
    Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
    Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
    When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
    My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
    Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
    Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Thomas Moore

The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

        Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
        CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.


    There lies a shell beneath the waves,
    In many a hollow winding wreathed,
            Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
            This magic shell,
    From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
            Sicilia's sands of gold.
                It bears
    Upon its shining side the mystic notes
        Of those entrancing airs,^[1]
    The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!
    Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
            And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

    Go, ...

Thomas Moore

The Voice.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,
When love, only love was the light of her ways;
And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,
It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!
"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;
"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.
"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain
To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!
She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave,
In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,
"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"
And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke,
For still fr...

Thomas Moore

The Day-Dream.

^[1]


They both were husht, the voice, the chords,--
    I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words.
    My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there,
    Like echoes of some broken strain;--
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
    That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
    And, tho' the charm still lingered on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
    The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
    On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
    Tho' what they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains
    I wooed this tru...

Thomas Moore

To Miss ....... On Her Asking The Author Why She Had Sleepless Nights.

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,
    And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,
    And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
    That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep
    When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say--her angel breast
    Has never throbbed with guilty sting;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest
    Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say--her cheeks that flush,
    Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
    Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!
    Does slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassioned care?
    ...

Thomas Moore

No, Not More Welcome.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
    Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
    He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,--
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
    This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
    To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
    Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
    Of my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!--
    I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
    By such benign, blessed sounds again.

Thomas Moore