The Snake.

My love and I, the other day,
Within a myrtle arbor lay,
When near us, from a rosy bed,
A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes--
"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!
"Who could expect such hidden harm
"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"

Never did grave remark occur
Less à-propos than this from her.

I rose to kill the snake, but she,
Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

"No," said the maiden--and, alas,
    Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it--
"Long as the snake is in the grass,
    "One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:
"But, when its wicked eyes appear,
    "And when we know for what they wink so,
"One must be very simple, dear,
    "To let it wound one--don't you think so?"

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

Still, Like Dew In Silence Falling. By Meleager.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

New Hospital For Sick Literati.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Surprise.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

From The High Priest Of Apollo To A Virgin Of Delphi.[1]

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 Grateful Snake.

Ingratitude! of earth the shame!
Thou monster, at whose hated name,
    The nerves of kindness ake;
Would I could drive thee from mankind,
By telling how a grateful mind,
    Once dignified a snake.

The tale is antient, and is sweet,
To mortals, who with joy repeat,
    What soothes the feeling heart;
The first of virtues, that may boast
The power to soothe, and please it most,
    Sweet gratitude, thou art.

The reptile, whom thy beauties raise,
Has an unquestion'd claim to praise,
    That justice will confirm!
The Muses, with a graceful pride,
May turn from thankless man aside,
    To celebrate a worm!

In Arcady, grave authors write,
There liv'd a Serpent, the delight,
    Of an ingenuous child;
Proud of his kindnes...

William Hayley

The Pretty Rose-Tree.

            Being weary of love,
            I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;
            Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,
            "Thou my mistress shall be,
    "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.
        "For the hearts of this world are hollow,
        "And fickle the smiles we follow;
                "And 'tis sweet, when all
                "Their witcheries pall
"To have a pure love to fly to:
                "So, my pretty Rose-tree,
                "Thou my mistress shalt be,
"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

                When the beautiful hue
                Of thy cheek thro' the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,
                "Sweet tears," I shall say
                (As I brush them away),...

Thomas Moore

Ill Omens.




When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
    And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
    The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
    Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
    The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.
    Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,^[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.
    Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
    She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise:
"Ah! such," said the girl...

Thomas Moore

Amour 30

Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee;
That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice,
Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,
The weeping Crocodile; these vile pernicious three.
The Basiliske his nature takes from thee,
Who for my life in secret wait do'st lye,
And to my heart send'st poyson from thine eye:
Thus do I feele the paine, the cause yet cannot see.
Faire-mayd no more, but Mayr-maid be thy name,
Who with thy sweet aluring harmony
Hast playd the thiefe, and stolne my hart from me,
And, like a Tyrant, mak'st my griefe thy game.
    The Crocodile, who, when thou hast me slaine,
    Lament'st my death with teares of thy disdaine.

Michael Drayton

The Ring.

TO .... ....


No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
    Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
    May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
    Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;
Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,
    To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,--
    Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
    Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,
    Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go--hie thee to the sage's book,
    And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,
    That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as ...

Thomas Moore

Cephalus And Procris.

A hunter once in that grove reclined,
    To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
    To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
    Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"
    While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
    What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
    "I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
    The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
    While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
    He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow...

Thomas Moore