Were Not The Sinful Mary's Tears. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
    An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
    She wept--and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet
    Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet
    The precious odors poured;--
And wiped them with that golden hair,
    Where once the diamond shone;
Tho' now those gems of grief were there
    Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed--
    That hair--those weeping eyes--
And the sunk heart, that inly bled--
    Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
    Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
    "Love much" and be forgiven!^[1]

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 XVII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Translations From Catullus. Carm. 70.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Fire-Fly.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rhymes On The Road. Extract III. Geneva.

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.

Weep Not For Those. (Air.--Avison.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
    'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
    To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,^[1]
    Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre ...

Thomas Moore

Oh Thou Who Dry'st The Mourner's Tear. (Air.--Haydn.)

        "He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"
        --Psalm. cxlvii. 3.


Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
    How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
    We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
    When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
    Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
    Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
    Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
    And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
    Is dimmed and vanished too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
    Did not thy Wing of Love...

Thomas Moore

Go, Let Me Weep. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
    Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
    In bright exhalement reach the skies.
        Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.--
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
    O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
        Leave me to sigh.

Thomas Moore

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

Here At Thy Tomb. By Meleager.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
    Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
    And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--

Wept in remembrance of that light.
    Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,
    But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough
    That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
    And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
    Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,--
    Gently, as in a mother's arms.

Thomas Moore

Song.

^[1]


Mary, I believed thee true,
    And I was blest in thus believing
But now I mourn that e'er I knew
    A girl so fair and so deceiving.
        Fare thee well.

Few have ever loved like me,--
    Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely!
And few have e'er deceived like thee.--
    Alas! deceived me too severely.

Fare thee well!--yet think awhile
    On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee:
Who now would rather trust that smile,
    And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee.
    Thou leavest me many a bitter token;
For see, distracting woman, see,
    My peace is gone, my heart is broken!--
        Fare thee well!

Thomas Moore