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Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,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;--
Or in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have markt thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh;--
A creature circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source.
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa thro' the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.

    Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And showd'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

    Wonder not if, where all's so fair,
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been,
The enamored muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!

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

Thoughts On Tar Barrels.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Thee, Thee, Only Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Come, Send Round The Wine.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fancy.

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 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

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

To Miss Susan Beckford.[1] On Her Singing.

I more than once have heard at night
    A song like those thy lip hath given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,
    Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep.
    And I have said when morning shone:--
"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep
    "These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent
    Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
    A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze
    Through which my path of life has led,
When I have heard the sweetest lays
    From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word
    From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying
With music's own melodious bird;

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

Boat Glee.

The song that lightens the languid way,
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray;
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
    As we row along thro' the waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
    That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees
    With an eye that feeling gave;--
For him there's a story in every breeze,
    And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;
        When brows are glowing,
        And faint with rowing,
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound thro' life we stray.

            *            *            *            *            *

'Tis sweet...

Thomas Moore

Beauty And Song.

Down in yon summer vale,
    Where the rill flows.
Thus said a Nightingale
    To his loved Rose:--
"Tho' rich the pleasures
"Of song's sweet measures,
"Vain were its melody,
"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess
    Of her night-bower,
Beaming with bashfulness,
    Spoke the bright flower:--
"Tho' morn should lend her
"Its sunniest splendor,
"What would the Rose be,
"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend
    Woman's bright way;
Thus still let woman lend
    Light to the lay.
Like stars thro' heaven's sea
Floating in harmony
Beauty should glide along
Circled by Song.

Thomas Moore