The Bird, Let Loose. (Air.--Beethoven.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,^[1]
    When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
    Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots thro' air and light,
    Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
    Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, GOD, from every care
    And stain of passion free,
Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air,
    To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
    My Soul, as home she springs;--

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,
    Thy Freedom in her wings!

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

The Donkey And His Panniers. A Fable.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rich And Rare Were The Gems She Wore.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To The Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

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.

To The Flying-Fish.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gayly to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were formed to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent
Within this world's gross element,
But takes the wing that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy c...

Thomas Moore

The Bird And The Storm-Cloud

    Little bird, is that thy sphere,
Yonder threat'ning cloud so near?
Sunbeams blaze along its brow,
Yet what darkness reigns below!
There the sullen thunder mutt'ring,
Wrathful sounds is sternly utt'ring; -
There the red-eyed lightning gleameth,
Where no more the sunlight beameth,
And the strong wind, fiercely waking,
Wings of fearful might is taking; -
Creature of the calmer air,
Wherefore art thou soaring there?

    Wert thou weary of the vale,
With its blossom-scented gale? -
Weary of thy breezy bowers? -
Weary of thy wild-wood flowers? -
Weary of thy wind-rocked nest
In the bright, green willow's breast? -
Didst thou sigh, on daring wing,
Up in heaven's blue depths to sing? -
Claim with storms companionship,
And in clouds t...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Like Morning, When Her Early Breeze. (Air. Beethoven.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord--
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

Thomas Moore

Say, What Shall Be Our Sport To-Day? (Sicilian Air.)

Say, what shall be our sport today?
    There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
    For spirits like mine to dare!
'Tis like the returning bloom
    Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour--I scarce knew whom--
    And was blest--I scarce knew why.

Ay--those were days when life had wings,
    And flew, oh, flew so wild a height
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
    'Twas giddy with too much light.
And, tho' of some plumes bereft,
    With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
    For a few gay soarings yet.

Thomas Moore

Up, Sailor Boy, 'Tis Day.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!
    The west wind blowing,
    The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up boy, away,--
Who'd stay on land to-day?
    The very flowers
    Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine
    On silken pillows;
    But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
"Yes, where you; please."
Up, boy, the wind, the ray,
    The blue sky o'er thee,
    The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, "Away!"

Thomas Moore

Oh Fair! Oh Purest! Saint Augustine To His Sister. (Air.--Moore)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear
Reflects him ere he reach his prey
And warns the timorous bird away,
        Be thou this dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;--
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
        Be thou that dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

Thomas Moore