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 cannot bear those sounds again.

Art thou, too, wretched? Yes, thou art;
    I see thy tears flow fast with mine--
Come, come to this devoted heart,
    'Tis breaking, but it still is 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

When On The Lip The Sigh Delays.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Anacreontic To A Plumassier.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Les Hommes Automates.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

An Incantation. Sung By The Bubble Spirit.

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.

My Gentle Harp.

My gentle harp, once more I waken
    The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
    And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
    But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
    Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
    An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
    With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
    Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
    She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
    My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morni...

Thomas Moore

Sing, Sweet Harp.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
    Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
    Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
    Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
    And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
    Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
    We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air
    Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
    Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
    The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
    Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
    Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vai...

Thomas Moore

Dear Harp Of My Country.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
    The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,^[1]
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
    And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
    Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
    That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
    This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
    Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine;
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
    Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as ...

Thomas Moore

Hush, Sweet Lute.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
    Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
    But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
    On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
    Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
    Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
    I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
    Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
    Than smile o'er any left us yet.

Thomas Moore

Anacreontic.

"She never looked so kind before--
    "Yet why the wanton's smile recall?
"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,
    "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained
    The cup which she so late had tasted;
Upon whose rim still fresh remained
    The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung
    As if 'twere not of her I sang;
But still the notes on Lamia hung--
    On whom but Lamia could they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,
    Like diamonds in some eastern river;
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
    A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed
    With flushes of love's genial hue;
A mould transparent, as if f...

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