Wake Up, Sweet Melody.

    Wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power,
One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray--
Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

    Ask the fond nightingale,
        When his sweet flower
    Loves most to hear his song,
        In her green bower?
Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long,
Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

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 Lovest No More.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Country Dance And Quadrille.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Peace And Glory.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Lines On The Death Of Mr. Perceval.

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.

Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
    Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
    Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
    Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
    When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
    My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
    Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
    Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Thomas Moore

Echo.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
    To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
    Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
    And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
    The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
    And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
    Breathed back again!

Thomas Moore

When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
    Were turning to fire.
Guess wh...

Thomas Moore

No, Not More Welcome.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
    Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
    He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,--
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
    This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
    To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
    Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
    Of my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!--
    I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
    By such benign, blessed sounds again.

Thomas Moore

The Young May Moon.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
    How sweet to rove
    Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
    And the best of all ways
    To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
    And I, whose star,
    More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
    Or, in watching the flight
    Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Thomas Moore

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
    Thus sung I to a maiden,
        Who slept one summer's day,
    And, like a flower overladen
        With too much sunshine, lay.
            Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
    Thus sing I, while, awaking,
        She murmurs words that seem
    As if her lips were taking
        Farewell of some sweet dream.
            Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

Thomas Moore