They Tell Me Thou'rt The Favored Guest.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know, that without thee
The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,
    Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
    To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past
Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

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

The Dream Of Home.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Sympathy.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Epilogue. Written For Lady Dacre's Tragedy Of Ina.

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 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Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,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

Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
    One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
    Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
        Ne'er hath a beam
        Been lost in the stream
    That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
        The spell of those eyes,
        The balm of thy sighs,
    Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
    One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
    The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,
    Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,
    But bathed the other with mantling wine.
        ...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract X. Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.


They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song.
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas! how different flows,
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always loved to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run,
    And all the assembled world to see,--
All but the one, the absent one,

Thomas Moore

When Abroad In The World.

When abroad in the world thou appearest.
    And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest.
    To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
        They pass, one by one,
            Like waves of the sea,
        That say to the Sun,
            "See, how fair we can be."
    But where's the light like thine,
    In sun or shade to shine?
No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
            Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
    Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
    And post down to earth in disguise;
        But, no matter what shroud
            Around her might be,
        Men peeped through the cloud,
    ...

Thomas Moore

Tho' Humble The Banquet.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
    Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
    And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
    Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
    Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
    Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
    Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
    And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,...

Thomas Moore

To .......

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,
    While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow
    One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;
    Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,--
    I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,
    Doom me not thus so soon to fall
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,--
    But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold
    As ever yet allured and swayed,
And couldst, without a sigh, behold
    The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,--could I think that, truly fond,
    That eye but once would smile on me,
Even as thou art, how far beyond
   ...

Thomas Moore