Young Jessica.

Young Jessica sat all the day,
    With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;
Her needle bright beside her lay,
    So active once!--now idly shining.
Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
    That love and mischief are most nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
    Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays
    Well knowing all its arts, so wily,
The tempter near a needle lays.
    And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily."
The needle, having naught to do,
    Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle;
Till closer, closer come the two,
    And--off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye
    To some gay reticule's construction,
It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie,
    Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,
    Your snowy fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
    Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

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 Alone.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Shine Out, Stars!

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Vii. The Extinguishers.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXIV.

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.

Retaliation.

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er
We call that elf, seen every where,
Half frolicsome, half ennuyeuse,
Had chanced a country walk to choose;
When sudden, sweet and bright as May,
Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.--

"Upon my word," exclaims the boy,
"A lucky hit! this pretty toy
To pass an hour, with vapours haunted,
Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted;
I do not so far condescend
As serious mischief to intend,
But just to show my powers of pleasing
In flattery, badinage, and teasing;
But should she, for young girls, poor things!
Are tender as yon insect's wings--
Should she mistake me, and grow fond,
Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond."

First, not abruptly to confound her,
With glance and smile he hovers round her:...

Thomas Gent

Ill Omens.




When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
    And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
    The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
    Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
    The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.
    Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,^[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.
    Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
    She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise:
"Ah! such," said the girl...

Thomas Moore

Love Disarmed

Beneath a Myrtle's verdant Shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on Her Breast,
And in That Heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her Paps his Wings He spread:
Between He found a downy Bed,
And nestl'd in His little Head.

Still lay the God: The Nymph surpriz'd,
Yet Mistress of her self, devis'd,
How She the Vagrant might inthral,
And Captive Him, who Captives All.

Her Boddice half way She unlac'd:
About his Arms She slily cast
The silken Bond, and held Him fast.

The God awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel Chain;
And thrice in vain He shook his Wing,
Incumber'd in the silken String.

Flutt'ring the God, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous Maid,
Who happen'd, being Blind, to stray,...

Matthew Prior

Nets And Cages.[1] (Swedish Air.)

Come, listen to my story, while
    Your needle task you ply:
At what I sing some maids will smile,
    While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
    Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,
    Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
    Then listen, maids, come listen, while
        Your needle's task you ply;
    At what I sing there's some may smile,
        While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
    Such nets had learned to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
    E'er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less given to roam,
    While Cloe's nets were taking
Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
    One little Love-cage making.

Thomas Moore

The Snow Spirit.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
    An island of lovelier charms;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
    Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,
    And their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
    And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
    That shines through thy lips when they part,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
    As a murmur of thine on the heart.
Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,
    As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
    But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale,
    And bright...

Thomas Moore

There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
    And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
    That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
    My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
    Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
    The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
    To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
    Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
    And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
    The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

Thomas Moore