Then First From Love.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
    Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
    To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
    Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
    To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
    Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
    But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
    So turning to that boy divine,
"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,
    "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

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

Fly Not Yet.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Latest Accounts From Olympus.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XX.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oft, In The Stilly Night. (Scotch Air.)

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.

To His Serene Highness The Duke Of Montpensier On His Portrait Of The Lady Adelaide Forbes.

Donington Park, 1802


To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
    Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
    The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
    And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
    Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
    The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,--
    And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
    In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
    On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene,
    The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The ch...

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

To .... ....

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
    That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
    Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
    The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
    Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,
    And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
    Again to close it on my breast;--

Yes,--these are minutes all thine own,
    Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
    The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
    When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
    Like me was...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract VIII. Venice.

Female Beauty at Venice.--No longer what it was in the time of Titian.-- His mistress.--Various Forms in which he has painted her.--Venus.--Divine and profane Love.--La Fragilita d'Amore--Paul Veronese.--His Women.-- Marriage of Cana.--Character of Italian Beauty.--Raphael's Fornarina.-- Modesty.


Thy brave, thy learned have passed away:
Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they?
The forms, the faces that once shone,
    Models of grace, in Titian's eye,
Where are they now, while flowers live on
    In ruined places, why, oh! why
    Must Beauty thus with Glory die?
That maid whose lips would still have moved,
    Could art have breathed a spirit through them;
Whose varying charms her artist loved
    More fondly every time he drew them,
(So oft beneath his touch they ...

Thomas Moore

When First That Smile. (Venetian Air.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,
    Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
    Seemed in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
    Of golden fruit and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
    And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
    Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness--
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,
    Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
    Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray--
    Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

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