The Indian Boat.

        'Twas midnight dark,
        The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
        When, thro' the night,
        He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
    "She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
    "With her freight of golden ore;
        "Sail on! sail on!"
        When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
        But, though so fast
        The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.

        Bright daylight came,
        And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
        While on the prize
        His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
    While the waves overtop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
    Like an arrow before the blast.
        Thus on, and on,
        Till day was gone,
And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,
        He swept the main,
        But all in vain,
That boat seemed never the nigher.

        And many a day
        To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded:
        While still his flight,
        Thro day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows--who knows what seas
    He is now careering o'er?
Behind, the eternal breeze,
    And that mocking bark, before!
        For, oh, till sky
        And earth shall die,
And their death leave none to rue it,
        That boat must flee
        O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.

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

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXVIII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Cara, On The Dawning Of A New Year's Day.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Dream Of Those Days.

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.

Sail On, Sail On.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark--
    Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
    More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
    "Tho' death beneath our smile may be,
    Less cold we are, less false than they,
    Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space--
    Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting place
    To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or--if some desert land we meet,
    Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,--
    Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

Thomas Moore

The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.^[1]


When freshly blows the northern gale,
    And under courses snug we fly;
Or when light breezes swell the sail,
    And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
    I stand, and, as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
    I think of her I love, and cry,
        Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
    Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go.
    And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
    My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
    I watch the sails and sighing say,
        Thus, my boy! thus.

...

Thomas Moore

The Voyage

I.
We left behind the painted buoy
That tosses at the harbor-mouth;
And madly danced our hearts with joy,
As fast we fleeted to the South:
How fresh was every sight and sound
On open main or winding shore!
We knew the merry world was round,
And we might sail for evermore.

II.
Warm broke the breeze against the brow,
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail:
The Ladys-head upon the prow
Caught the shrill salt, and sheerd the gale.
The broad seas swelld to meet the keel,
And swept behind: so quick the run,
We felt the good ship shake and reel,
We seemd to sail into the Sun!

III.
How oft we saw the Sun retire,
And burn the threshold of the night,
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire,
And sleep beneath his pillard light!
Ho...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Columbus

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: "Now we must pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"
"Why, say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!' "
"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day,
'Sail on! sail on! and on!' "
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forge...

Joaquin Miller

Written On Passing Deadman's Island, In The Gulf Of St. Lawrence,[1] Late In The Evening, September, 1804.

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark,
Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?
Her sails are full,--though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear?
The silent calm of the grave is there,
Save now and again a death-knell rung,
And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador;
Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew,
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast;

Thomas Moore

Oh, Soon Return.

Our white sail caught the evening ray,
    The wave beneath us seemed to burn,
When all the weeping maid could say,
    Was, "Oh, soon return!"
Thro' many a clime our ship was driven
O'er many a billow rudely thrown;
Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,
    Now sunned in summer's zone:
And still, where'er we bent our way,
    When evening bid the west wave burn,
I fancied still I heard her say,
    "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found
    Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,
'Twas when the combat raged around,
    And brave men looked to me.
But tho' the war-field's wild alarm
    For gentle love was all unmeet,
He lent to glory's brow the charm,
    Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when victory's calm came o'e...

Thomas Moore