To .... .... On Seeing Her With A White Veil And A Rich Girdle.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!
    Let weeping angels View it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.
    And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;
    The shining pearls around it
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,
    The hour when Love unbound it.

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

This World Is All A Fleeting Show. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter IV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When He, Who Adores Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alone In Crowds To Wander On.

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.

Eveleen's Bower.

        Oh! weep for the hour,
        When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
        The moon hid her light
        From the heavens that night.
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

        The clouds past soon
        From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame:
        But none will see the day,
        When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

        The white snow lay
        On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
        And many a deep print
        On the white snow's tint
Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

        The next sun's ray
        Soon melted away<...

Thomas Moore

A Warning.

TO .......


Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light!
Did nature mould thee all so bright.
That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep
O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,
O'er shame extinguished, honor fled,
Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead?

No, no! a star was born with thee,
Which sheds eternal purity.
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,
So fair a transcript of the skies,
In lines of light such heavenly lore
That men should read them and adore.
Yet have I known a gentle maid
Whose mind and form were both arrayed
In nature's purest light, like thine;--
Who wore that clear, celestial sign
Which seems to mark the brow that's fair
For destiny's peculiar care;
Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own,
Was guarded by a sacred zon...

Thomas Moore

From The High Priest Of Apollo To A Virgin Of Delphi.[1]

        Cum digno digna.....
                                            SULPICIA.


"Who is the maid, with golden hair,
"With eye of fire, and foot of air,
"Whose harp around my altar swells,
"The sweetest of a thousand shells?"
'Twas thus the deity, who treads
The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds
Day from his eyelids--thus he spoke,
As through my cell his glories broke.

    Aphelia is the Delphic fair^[2]
With eyes of fire and golden hair,
Aphelia's are the airy feet.
And hers the harp divinely sweet;
For foot so light has never trod
The laurelled caverns of the god.
Nor harp so soft hath ever given
A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

    "Then tell the virgin to unfold,
"In looser pomp, her locks of gold...

Thomas Moore

To .......

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
    At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
    Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
    When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
    She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
    I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
    Than bask in the noon of another.

Thomas Moore

The Tear.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,
    And chilly was the midnight gloom,
When by the damp grave Ellen wept--
    Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,
    Congealed it as it flowed away:
All night it lay an ice-drop there,
    At morn it glittered in the ray.

An angel, wandering from her sphere,
    Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear
    And hung it on her diadem!

Thomas Moore

Woman.

Away, away--you're all the same,
    A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
    To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
    From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
    Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
    More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
    Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
    Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
    If e'er I love such things again.

Thomas Moore