The Tear.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
    And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept--
    Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,
    Congealed it as it flowed away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
    At morn it glittered in the ray.

An angel, wandering from her sphere,
    Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear
    And hung it on her diadem!

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

Sweet Innisfallen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

At The Mid Hour Of Night

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

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.

Eveleen's Bower.

        Oh! weep for the hour,
        When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
        The moon hid her light
        From the heavens that night.
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

        The clouds past soon
        From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame:
        But none will see the day,
        When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

        The white snow lay
        On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
        And many a deep print
        On the white snow's tint
Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

        The next sun's ray
        Soon melted away<...

Thomas Moore

To Rosa.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
    At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
    Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
    Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
    From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
    That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
    Thou shalt weep them again and again.

Thomas Moore

Elegiac Stanzas.

        Sic juvat perire.


When wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
    Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
    'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,--
None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,--
None but the whispering winds of heaven!

Thomas Moore

Here At Thy Tomb. By Meleager.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
    Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
    And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--

Wept in remembrance of that light.
    Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,
    But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough
    That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
    And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
    Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,--
    Gently, as in a mother's arms.

Thomas Moore

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
    As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
    That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
    Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
    I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
    Been like our Lagenian mine,^[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
    All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
    Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
    Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,^[2]
    That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
    Has Hope been ...

Thomas Moore

Still, Like Dew In Silence Falling. By Meleager.

Still, like dew in silence falling,
    Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
    Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
        Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
    Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
    So 'tis graven on this heart,
        Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
    Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
    Why? why?

Thomas Moore