So Warmly We Met. (Hungarian Air.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,
    That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,--
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,
    Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell.
To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,--
    Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other
    In smiles and in tears than that moment to this.

The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,--
    The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;
The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,
    More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.
Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow
    To think that such happiness could not remain;
While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow
    Would bring back the blest hour of meeting 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

Rhymes On The Road. Extract IV. Milan.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ill Omens.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tout Pour La Tripe.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Then, Fare Thee Well. (Old English Air.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
    This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
    The pain of parting thus,
            Dear love!
    The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
    Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
    The deep, deep pain of this,
            Dear love!
    The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen
    One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
    And chased it all away,
            Dear love!
    And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last,
    Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
    Than years of mirth apart,
            Dear lo...

Thomas Moore

And Doth Not A Meeting Like This.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
    For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
    As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
    The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
    We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
    In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
    Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
    When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
    The warmth of...

Thomas Moore

How Happy, Once.

How happy, once, tho' winged with sighs,
    My moments flew along,
While looking on those smiling eyes,
    And listening to thy magic song!
But vanished now, like summer dreams,
    Those moments smile no more;
For me that eye no longer beams,
    That song for me is o'er.
Mine the cold brow,
    That speaks thy altered vow,
While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee,
    One hope might yet be mine--
Some other eyes as bright to see,
    And hear a voice as sweet as thine:
But never, never can this heart
    Be waked to life again;
With thee it lost its vital part,
    And withered then!
Cold its pulse lies,
And mute are even its sighs,
All other grief it now defies.

Thomas Moore

The Meeting Of The Waters.[1]

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;^[2]
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.
Where the storms that we fe...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now,
The snows of Time fall o'er my brow,
Upon his wing of golden light.
He passes with an eaglet's flight,
And flitting onward seems to say,
"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray,
That lights our life's meandering way,
That God, within this bosom stealing,
Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling.
Which pleases, though so sadly teasing,
And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

            *            *            *            *            *

Let me resign this wretched breath
    Since now remains to me
No other balm than kindly death,
    To soothe my misery!

            *            *            *            *            *

I know thou lovest a brimming meas...

Thomas Moore

One Bumper At Parting.

One bumper at parting!--tho' many
    Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
    Remains to be crowned by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,
    Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
    It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come,--may our life's happy measure
    Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
    They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant
    To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
    That mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
    Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours--
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
    Than when his way lies among...

Thomas Moore