The Irish Peasant To His Mistress.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way,
Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned;
She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail--
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains--
Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue--
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!^[2]

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

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VIII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Halcyon Hangs O'er Ocean.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Tear.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)

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.

Woman.

Away, away--you're all the same,
    A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
    To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
    From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
    Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
    More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
    Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
    Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
    If e'er I love such things again.

Thomas Moore

To .......

Sweet lady, look not thus again:
    Those bright, deluding smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
    Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took
    Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she smile and lisp and look,
    And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her--wildly love--
    She was her sex's best deceiver!
And oft she swore she'd never rove--
    And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile
    Of one whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile
    Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind
    On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned
    Will err again an...

Thomas Moore

When First I Met Thee.

When first I met thee, warm and young,
    There shone such truth about thee.
And on thy lip such promise hung,
    I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw the change, yet still relied,
    Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho' false to all beside,
    From me thou couldst not wander.
        But go, deceiver! go,
            The heart, whose hopes could make it
        Trust one so false, so low,
            Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
    I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
    Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
    Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
    Would then have...

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

Where Is The Slave.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemned to chains unholy,
    Who, could he burst
    His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decayed it,
    When thus its wing
    At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouched and blowing,
    Than that, whose braid
    Is plucked to shade
The brows with victory glowing
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
    The friends we've tried
    Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Thomas Moore

Intolerance, A Satire.

        "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

        ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.


Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls
Which took such freedom once with royal souls,^[1]
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,
No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sall...

Thomas Moore