The Catalogue.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist,
    One day she reclined on my breast;
"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
    "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."--
Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved,
    My heart at the moment was free;
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,
    And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild
    She taught me the way to be blest;
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
    But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
    I have never forgot, I allow:
I have had it by rote very often before,
    But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
    But my head was so full of romance
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,
    And I was her knight of the lance.
But Martha was not of this fanciful school,
    And she laughed at her poor little knight;
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,
    And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks,
    Again I was tempted to rove;
But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books
    That she gave me more logic than love.
So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly
    To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,
    And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,
    But Susan was piously given;
And the worst of it was, we could never agree
    On the road that was shortest to Heaven.
"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth,
    "What's devotion to thee or to me?
"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,
    "And believe that that heaven's in thee!"

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

To Mrs. Bl----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh! Doubt Me Not.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When He, Who Adores Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Turf Shall Be My Fragrant Shrine. (Air.--Stevenson.)

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.

The Sale Of Loves.

I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves,
    My nets by moonlight laying,
I caught a flight of wanton Loves,
    Among the rose-beds playing.
Some just had left their silvery shell,
    While some were full in feather;
So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,
    Were never yet strung together.
        Come buy my Loves,
        Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!--
    They're new and bright,
    The cost is light,
For the coin of this isle is kisses.

First Cloris came, with looks sedate.
    The coin on her lips was ready;
"I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight,
    "Full grown, if you please, and steady."
"Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray--
    "Such lasting toys undo one;
"A light little Love that will last to-day,--

Thomas Moore

The Grecian Girl's Dream Of The Blessed Islands.[1]

TO HER LOVER.


Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night
Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,
That, while I yet can vividly recall
Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all.
Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,
Descending from above, at that still hour,
And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.
Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day.
In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay,
But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

    At once I knew their mission:--'twas to bear
My spirit upward, through the paths of air,
To that elysian r...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
    They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
    When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
    Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
    Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
    Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
    The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
    With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into...

Thomas Moore

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

        Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
        CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.


    There lies a shell beneath the waves,
    In many a hollow winding wreathed,
            Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
            This magic shell,
    From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
            Sicilia's sands of gold.
                It bears
    Upon its shining side the mystic notes
        Of those entrancing airs,^[1]
    The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!
    Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
            And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

    Go, ...

Thomas Moore

Boat Glee.

The song that lightens the languid way,
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
    As we row along thro' the waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
    That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
    With an eye that feeling gave;--
For him there's a story in every breeze,
    And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray.

            *            *            *            *            *

'Tis sweet...

Thomas Moore