Those Evening Bells. (Air.--The Bells Of St. Petersburgh.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away:
And many a heart, that then was gay.
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

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

When First I Met Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Cocker, On Church Reform.

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.

Those Evening Bells.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells, -
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away,
The Postman gone - and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.^[1]

And so 'twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

Thomas Hood

The Evening Gun.

Remember'st thou that setting sun,
    The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep
    Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,
    They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
    In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
    Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled.
    The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
    Like them to die away.

Thomas Moore

Sweet Evening Bells

Soft evening bells! - sweet evening bells!
O'er vale and plain your music swells,
                        And far away
                        The echoes play
O'er shaggy mount and forest grey;
                And every rock its secret tells
        To your soft chime, sweet evening bells!

Soft evening bells! - sweet evening bells!
Now twilight drapes the woodland dells,
                        And shadows lie
                        On the closed eye
Of flowers that dream beneath the sky;
                Yet fainter, sweeter, tenderer swells
        Your dying chime, sweet evening bells!

O evening bells! - sweet evening bells!
With every note that sinks and swells,
                        Sadly and slow
                        The warm tears ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

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

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

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

Oft in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me;
        The smiles, the tears,
        Of boyhood's years,
    The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
    The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me.

When I remember all
    The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
    Like leaves in wintry weather;
        I feel like one,
        Who treads alone,
    Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
    And all but he departed!
Thu...

Thomas Moore