Tho' Lightly Sounds The Song I Sing. A Song Of The Alps.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay--
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,--
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

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

To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

On The Death Of A Lady,

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Lady Holland. On Napoleon's Legacy Op A Snuff-Box.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Dream Of Home.

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.

Sing--Sing--Music Was Given.

Sing--sing--Music was given,
    To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
    By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
    But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
    At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
    Then sing--sing--Music was given,
        To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
    Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
        By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
    Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
    "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
    ...

Thomas Moore

When Midst The Gay I Meet.

When midst the gay I meet
    That gentle smile of thine,
Tho' still on me it turns most sweet,
    I scarce can call it mine:
But when to me alone
    Your secret tears you show,
Oh, then I feel those tears my own,
    And claim them while they flow.
Then still with bright looks bless
    The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
    But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep
    Can smile in many a beam,
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep.
    How bright soe'er it seem.
But, when some deep-felt ray
    Whose touch is fire appears,
Oh, then the smile is warmed away,
    And, melting, turns to tears.
Then still with bright looks bless
    The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to tho...

Thomas Moore

Thou Bidst Me Sing.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

Thomas Moore

On Music.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
    Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
    In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
    Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
    In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
    Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
    That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
    Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
    Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
    Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
    When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's ...

Thomas Moore

To .......

Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse
    Upon the gathering ills we see;
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
    All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!--Though death were near,
    Thy song could make my soul forget--
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
    All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm
    Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
    Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch
    We used to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
    As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
    Of all that looked so smiling then,
Now vanished, lost--oh, pray thee cease,
    I canno...

Thomas Moore

A Melologue Upon National Music.

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.


There breathes a language known and felt
    Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
    That language of the soul is felt and known.
        From those meridian plains,
    Where oft, of old, on some high tower
The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains,
And called his distant love with such sweet power,
    That, when she heard the lonely lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,^[1]
    To the bleak climes of polar night,
    Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
    Gayly as if the blessed light
    Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow;
...

Thomas Moore