The Young Indian Maid.

        There came a nymph dancing
        Gracefully, gracefully,
        Her eye a light glancing
        Like the blue sea;
        And while all this gladness
        Around her steps hung,
        Such sweet notes of sadness
        Her gentle lips sung,
That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade
The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

        Her zone of bells ringing
        Cheerily, cheerily,
        Chimed to her singing
        Light echoes of glee;
        But in vain did she borrow
        Of mirth the gay tone,
        Her voice spoke of sorrow,
        And sorrow alone.
Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade
The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

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

Sing--Sing--Music Was Given.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love And Hymen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XVI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

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 Song Of The Olden Time.

There's a song of the olden time,
    Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
    Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
    When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
    Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
    Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
    Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,--
    Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
    Autumn's sere and faded bough,--
'Twill seem as still those friends were near,
    Who loved me in youth's early day,
If in that parting hour I hear
    The same sweet notes and die away,--
To that song of the olde...

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

Love's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore

Gazel.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;
    Already, in the unopened flowers
That sleep around us, Fancy's eye
    Can see the blush of future bowers;
And joy it brings to thee and me,
My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way,
    To feed the marble Founts of Kings,
Now, loosened by the vernal ray,
    Upon its path exulting springs--
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay;
    Enough if they awhile remain,
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.
    From time to time, and come again.
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart,
    Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,
That rends its inmost leaves apart
    With...

Thomas Moore

Beauty And Song.

Down in yon summer vale,
    Where the rill flows.
Thus said a Nightingale
    To his loved Rose:--
"Tho' rich the pleasures
"Of song's sweet measures,
"Vain were its melody,
"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess
    Of her night-bower,
Beaming with bashfulness,
    Spoke the bright flower:--
"Tho' morn should lend her
"Its sunniest splendor,
"What would the Rose be,
"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend
    Woman's bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
    Light to the lay.
Like stars thro' heaven's sea
Floating in harmony
Beauty should glide along
Circled by Song.

Thomas Moore

Nights Of Music.

Nights of music, nights of loving,
    Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
    Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
    All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
    Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
    From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
    Not a beam, a leaf may die!

Thomas Moore