Swiss Air.--"Ranz Des Vaches."

        But wake, the trumpet's blast again,
        And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
    Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
        Of Him who made all harmony,
        Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
        And the first hymn that man awaking
    From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

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

Lord Wellington And The Ministers.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ne'er Talk Of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools. (Mahratta Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

As Down In The Sunless Retreats. (Air.--Haydn.)

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.

Flourish Of Trumpets.

        Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
        The war-steed's wakening ears!--
    Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
    And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
    Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
    With valor's fever at the sound.
    See, from his native hills afar
    The rude Helvetian flies to war;
    Careless for what, for whom he fights,
    For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
        A conqueror oft--a hero never--
    Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
    As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
        And gushed forever!

        Yes, Music, here, even here,
    Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.--
    There's a wild air wh...

Thomas Moore

From Life Without Freedom.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains--
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

Thomas Moore

Lusitanian War-Song.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till not one hateful link remains
    Of slavery's lingering chains;
    Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
    No! never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
    "Your cloud of foes hath past away,
    "And Freedom comes with new-born ray
"To gild your vines and light your fountains."
    Oh, never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

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

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

Oh, The Sight Entrancing.

Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing,
        O'er files arrayed
        With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
        That song, whose breath
        May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
    O'er files arrayed
    With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather--
For ask yon despot, whether
    His plumed bands
    Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em--
Give man but heart and freedom,
    And proud he braves
    The gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs...

Thomas Moore