The Two Loves.

There are two Loves, the poet sings,
    Both born of Beauty at a birth:
The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,
    The other, earthly, walks on earth.
With this thro' bowers below we play,
    With that thro' clouds above we soar;
With both, perchance, may lose our way:--
        Then, tell me which,
    Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air,
    At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip,
Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare
    His wing within the wave to dip.
While plunging deep and long beneath,
    The other bathes him o'er and o'er
In that sweet current, even to death:--
        Then, tell me which,
    Tell me which shall we adore?

The boy of heaven, even while he lies
    In Beauty's lap, recalls his home;
And when most happy, inly sighs
    For something happier still to come.
While he of earth, too fully blest
    With this bright world to dream of more,
Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:--
        Then, tell me which,
    Tell me which shall we adore?

The maid who heard the poet sing
    These twin-desires of earth and sky,
And saw while one inspired his string,
    The other glistened in his eye,--
To name the earthlier boy ashamed,
    To chose the other fondly loath,
At length all blushing she exclaimed,--
        "Ask not which,
    "Oh, ask not which--we'll worship both.

"The extremes of each thus taught to shun,
    "With hearts and souls between them given,
"When weary of this earth with one,
    "We'll with the other wing to heaven."
Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss;
And while one Love wrote down the oath,
The other sealed it with a kiss;
        And Heaven looked on,
    Heaven looked on and hallowed both.

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

One Bumper At Parting.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Flying-Fish.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

From The Hon. Henry ----, To Lady Emma ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tis The Last Rose Of Summer.

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.

Love And Reason.

        Quand l'homme commence à raissonner,
        il cesse de sentir.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.


'Twas in the summer time so sweet,
    When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That--who, of all the world, should meet,
    One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
    While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
    And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
    While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
    A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past,
    Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast
Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain...

Thomas Moore

The Grecian Girl's Dream Of The Blessed Islands.[1]

TO HER LOVER.


Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night
Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,
That, while I yet can vividly recall
Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all.
Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,
Descending from above, at that still hour,
And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.
Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day.
In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay,
But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

    At once I knew their mission:--'twas to bear
My spirit upward, through the paths of air,
To that elysian r...

Thomas Moore

The Catalogue.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist,
    One day she reclined on my breast;
"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
    "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."--
Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved,
    My heart at the moment was free;
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,
    And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild
    She taught me the way to be blest;
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
    But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
    I have never forgot, I allow:
I have had it by rote very often before,
    But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
    But my head was so f...

Thomas Moore

Tis Sweet To Think.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
    We are sure to find something blissful and dear.
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
    Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
    It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
    To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
    To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
    'Twere a pity t...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
    They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
    When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
    Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
    Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
    Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
    The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
    With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into...

Thomas Moore

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore