The Meeting Of The Ships.

When o'er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we've cheerless gone,
Oh they who've felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye,
"Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
"Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?


Then sails are backed, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.

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

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Wreath The Bowl.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Reuben And Rose. A Tale Of Romance.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode. LIV.

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.

As Slow Our Ship.

As slow our ship her foamy track
    Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
    To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loathe we part from all we love.
    From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
    To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
    We talk, with joyous seeming,--
With smiles that might as well be tears,
    So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
    Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
    To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet
    Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
    And naught but love is wanting;
We think...

Thomas Moore

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;

Thomas Moore

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

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

Come O'er The Sea.

        Come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Come wherever the wild wind blows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

        Was not the sea
        Made for the Free,
    Land for courts and chains alone?
        Here we are slaves,
        But, on the waves,
    Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven aro...

Thomas Moore