Take Hence The Bowl. (Neapolitan Air.)

Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming
    Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh, it but sets me dreaming
    Of happy days now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,
    As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
    Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither
    Some scene of bliss gone by;--
Bright lips too bright to wither,
    Warm hearts too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o'er me
    Of those long vanished years,
Alas, the wine before me
    Seems turning all to tears!

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

Light Sounds The Harp.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Extracts From The Diary Of A Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

All That's Bright Must Fade. (Indian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Brunswick Club.

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.

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore

Wreath The Bowl.

    Wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
    Should Love amid
    The wreaths be hid,
That joy, the enchanter, brings us,
    No danger fear,
    While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us,
    Then, wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

    'Twas nectar fed
    Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
    And man may brew
    His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
    Take wine like this,
    Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
 ...

Thomas Moore

Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
    Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
    Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
    Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
    Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
    Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
    Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
    Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
    Bright to the last drop flowing!

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

When The Wine-Cup Is Smiling. (Italian Air.)

When the wine-cup is smiling before us,
    And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true,
Then the sky of this life opens o'er us,
    And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.
Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,
    We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;
For him but two bright eyes were shining--
    See, what numbers are sparkling for us!

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,
    While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,
'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing,
    To disturb even a saint from his dreams.
Yet, tho' life like a river is flowing,
    I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,
So the grape on its bank is still growing,
    And Love lights the waves as they run.

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thread the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nurst with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

    Behold!--my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Say, can the tears we lend to thought

Thomas Moore