With Moonlight Beaming.

With moonlight beaming
    Thus o'er the deep,
Who'd linger dreaming
    In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day,--
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
    The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
    The shining sea.

To halls of splendor
    Let great ones hie;
Thro' light more tender
    Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
And as we lend 'em
    Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send 'em
    More sweet again.

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

The Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Wonder.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love's Light Summer-Cloud.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

At The Mid Hour Of Night

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.

Bright Moon.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,
    All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
    And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!--
By all the bliss thy beam discovers,
    By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
    Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,--

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
    Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
    Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
    Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
    Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

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

To Lord Viscount Strangford.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.


Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,^[1]
    By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,
    And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
    We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for k...

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

A Reflection At Sea.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
    Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,--
    Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
    Rises on time's eventful sea:
And, having swelled a moment there,
    Thus melts into eternity!

Thomas Moore

I Saw From The Beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
    A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
    The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
    So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
    And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
    The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;--
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
    Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
    When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul, like ...

Thomas Moore