Weep On, Weep On.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
    Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
    And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
    The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;--
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
    It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days,
    They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
    That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruined isle,
    Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
    Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
    "Your web of discord wove;
"And while your tyrants joined in hate,
    "You never joined in love.
"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,
    "And man profaned what God had given;
"Till some were heard to curse the shrine,
    "Where others knelt to heaven!"

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

Love And Marriage.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

When Abroad In The World.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

As Slow Our Ship.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The High-Born Ladye.

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.

The Irish Slave.

^[1]


I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
    "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
    And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
    Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
    That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
    And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
    "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
    "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
    "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,

Thomas Moore

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

Lines On The Death Of Sheridan.

        principibus placuisse viris!
        --HORAT.


Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear
    Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career.
    And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:--

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
    By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;--
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
    Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
    And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
    The relics of him who died--friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array
    Of one whom they...

Thomas Moore

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter IV. From Phelim Connor To ----

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there^[1]--
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!--let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your .            .            .            .^[2]
            .            .            .            .            .
Still hope a...

Thomas Moore

How Oft Has The Banshee Cried.

        How oft has the Banshee cried,
        How oft has death untied
        Bright links that Glory wove,
        Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
        Long may the fair and brave
        Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

        We're fallen upon gloomy days!^[1]
        Star after star decays,
        Every bright name, that shed
        Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
        But brightly flows the tear,
        Wept o'er a hero's bier.

        Quenched are our beacon lights--
        Thou, of the Hundred Fights!^[2]
        Thou, on whose burning tongue
   ...

Thomas Moore

After The Battle.

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
    And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
    Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
    For ever dimmed, for ever crost--
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
    When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
    And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watcht, till morning's beam
    Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
    Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;--
If death that world's bright opening be,
    Oh! who would live a slave in this?

Thomas Moore