The Night Dance.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
    And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
    Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
    That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
            Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
    In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
    And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
    And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
    And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding
    Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding--
            Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
    Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
    And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

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

Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .......'s Picture.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Wonder.

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.

Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)

Gayly sounds the castanet,
    Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
    Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
Thro' all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
    Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread
    On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,
    And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
    Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved thro' many a day
    To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done,
    Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
    O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss--
    The words, whose parting to...

Thomas Moore

There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
    And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
    That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
    My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
    Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
    The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
    To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
    Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
    And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
    The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

Thomas Moore

Sing--Sing--Music Was Given.

Sing--sing--Music was given,
    To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
    By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
    But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
    At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
    Then sing--sing--Music was given,
        To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
    Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
        By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
    Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
    "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
    ...

Thomas Moore

When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
    Were turning to fire.
Guess wh...

Thomas Moore

Say, What Shall We Dance?

    Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
    Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro' bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?

    Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating ...

Thomas Moore

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore