To Rosa.

        A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.
        "Past. Fid."


And are you then a thing of art,
    Seducing all, and loving none;
And have I strove to gain a heart
    Which every coxcomb thinks his own?

Tell me at once if this be true,
    And I will calm my jealous breast;
Will learn to join the dangling crew,
    And share your simpers with the rest.

But if your heart be not so free,--
    Oh! if another share that heart,
Tell not the hateful tale to me,
    But mingle mercy with your art.

I'd rather think you "false as hell,"
    Than find you to be all divine,--
Than know that heart could love so well,
    Yet know that heart would not be mine!

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

Thou Art, O God.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Sound The Loud Timbrel. Miriam's Song. (Alr.--Avison.)[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Reinforcements For Lord Wellington.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Animal Magnetism.

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 Rosa.

Like one who trusts to summer skies,
    And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,
    Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind,
    And sadly may the bark be tost;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,
    And then the wretched heart is lost!

Thomas Moore

The Resemblance.

        ---- vo cercand' io,
        Donna quant' e possibile in altrui
        La desiata vostra forma vera.
                    PETRARC, Sonett. 14.


Yes, if 'twere any common love,
    That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
    Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one
    In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
    So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,
    She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
    That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,
    'Twas love that waked the fond excess;
My heart had been more true to thee,
    Had min...

Thomas Moore

The Catalogue.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist,
    One day she reclined on my breast;
"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
    "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."--
Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved,
    My heart at the moment was free;
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,
    And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild
    She taught me the way to be blest;
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
    But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
    I have never forgot, I allow:
I have had it by rote very often before,
    But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
    But my head was so f...

Thomas Moore

To Rosa. Written During Illness.

The wisest soul, by anguish torn,
    Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
    The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,
    Which sinks hot with this chain of clay;
Which throbs beyond the chill control
    Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death
    Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties,
Love still attends the immortal breath,
    And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,
    My soul shall leave this orb of men,
That love which formed its treasure here,
    Shall be its best of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old,
    Some air-born genius, child of time,
Presided o'er each star that rolled,

Thomas Moore

To Rosa.

Is the song of Rosa mute?
Once such lays inspired her lute!
Never doth a sweeter song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odors dying,
Woos it with enamor'd sighing.

    Is my Rosa's lute unstrung?
Once a tale of peace it sung
To her lover's throbbing breast--
Then was he divinely blest!
Ah! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;
And her lute neglected lies;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent lute--forgotten lover--
Rosa's love and song are over!

Thomas Moore

To Rosa.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
    At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
    Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
    Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
    From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
    That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
    Thou shalt weep them again and again.

Thomas Moore