What Shall I Sing Thee?

TO ----.


What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remembered well
As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
    Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
    As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise;--
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
    Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye whose lustre broke--
    Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
    In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy.
    Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
    Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
    Of the fresh light those moments cast.

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

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

By That Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Our First Young Love.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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If Thou Wouldst Have Me Sing And Play.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play,
    As once I played and sung,
First take this time-worn lute away,
    And bring one freshly strung.
Call back the time when pleasure's sigh
First breathed among the strings;
And Time himself, in flitting by.
    Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute,
    And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
    Or speak but dreamy words.
In vain I seek the soul that dwelt
    Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
    And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,
    From lyre so coldly strung;
With this I ne'er can sing or play,
    As once I played and sung.
No, bring that long-loved lute again,--

Thomas Moore

Thou Bidst Me Sing.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

Thomas Moore

To .......

Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse
    Upon the gathering ills we see;
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
    All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!--Though death were near,
    Thy song could make my soul forget--
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
    All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm
    Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
    Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch
    We used to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
    As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
    Of all that looked so smiling then,
Now vanished, lost--oh, pray thee cease,
    I canno...

Thomas Moore

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore

To Miss Susan Beckford.[1] On Her Singing.

I more than once have heard at night
    A song like those thy lip hath given,
And it was sung by shapes of light,
    Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep.
    And I have said when morning shone:--
"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep
    "These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent
    Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
    A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze
    Through which my path of life has led,
When I have heard the sweetest lays
    From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word
    From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying
With music's own melodious bird;

Thomas Moore

They Tell Me Thou'rt The Favored Guest.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know, that without thee
The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,
    Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
    To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past
Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

Thomas Moore