Tell Her, Oh, Tell Her.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

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

A Ghost Story. To The Air Of "Unfortunate Miss Bailey."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The East Indian.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of A Lady,

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When Cold In The Earth.

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.

Here's The Bower.

Here's the bower she loved so much,
    And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
    Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
    Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
    Where's the lip to breathe them?
                Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
    Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
    Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
    Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
    Nor Pity wept a dearer!
                Here's the bower, etc.

Thomas Moore

The Tell-Tale Lyre.

I've heard, there was in ancient days
    A Lyre of most melodious spell;
'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,
    If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs,
    And to their breath it breathed again
In such entrancing melodies
    As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch
    So stilly could the notes prolong;
They were not heavenly song so much
    As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air
    Along the chords in languor stole,
The numbers it awakened there
    Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light,
    Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,
    Soon whispered it to kind r...

Thomas Moore

The Leaf And The Fountain.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
"So may the stars obey thee
    "So may each airy
    "Moon-elf and fairy
"Nightly their homage pay thee!
"Say, by what spell, above, below,
"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
    "I may discover,
    "Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me, or no,
"Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
    "Its stem enchanted.
    "By moon-elves planted,
"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,
"Bring thence their fairest leaf below;
    "And thou'lt discover,
    "Ere night is over,
"Whether thy love loves thee or no,
"Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going,
"With blosso...

Thomas Moore

She Is Far From The Land.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
    And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
    For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
    Every note which he loved awaking;--
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
    How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
    They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
    Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
    When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
    From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore

Hush, Sweet Lute.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
    Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
    But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
    On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
    Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
    Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
    I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
    Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
    Than smile o'er any left us yet.

Thomas Moore

My Heart And Lute.

I give thee all--I can no more--
    Tho' poor the offering be;
My heart and lute are all the store
    That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
    The soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
    Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas!
    To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
    Or gild them if they stay.
And even if Care at moments flings
    A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let Love but gently touch the strings,
    'Twill all be sweet again!

Thomas Moore