Twin'St Thou With Lofty Wreath Thy Brow? By Paul, The Silentiary.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
    Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while awed I bow
    'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt,--this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,
    Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
    As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt,--I must
Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils,
    Those sunny locks elude the sight,--
Oh, not even then their glory fails
    To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend,
    Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending every dart they send
    Some new, peculiar touch of fire,
Be what thou wilt,--this heart
    Adores what'er thou art!

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

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

My Mopsa Is Little. By Philodemus.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Dear To Me The Hour.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter X. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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To Weave A Garland For The Rose. By Paul, The Silentiary.

To weave a garland for the rose.
    And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
    That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
    Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
    Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
    The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
    'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
    With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
    Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms
    I now give up my spell-bound heart.

Thomas Moore

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;--

Thomas Moore

Fairest! Put On Awhile.

Fairest! put on awhile
    These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
    In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
    At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
    As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays
    And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
    With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs
    In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
    That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,
    That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
    He hath been won down by them;--^[1]
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
    Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet...

Thomas Moore

Still Thou Fliest.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
    Lovely phantom,--all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
    Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
    Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,--
    As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
    Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
    Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
    The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendor hiding.--
    Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

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

Love Alone.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:
Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone,
Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.

Thomas Moore