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Best Famous Thomas Moore Poems

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by Thomas Moore | |

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
   Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
   Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
   Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
   Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

by Thomas Moore | |

They Know Not My Heart

 They know not my heart, who believe there can be 
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee; 
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, 
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, 
I could harm what I love, -- as the sun's wanton ray 
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
No -- beaming with light as those young features are, There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: It is not that cheek -- 'tis the soul dawning clear Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear: As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

by Thomas Moore | |

Sail On Sail On

 Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark -- 
Where'er blows the welcome wind, 
It cannot lead to scenes more dark, 
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say, "Though death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee.
" Sail on, sail on -- through endless space -- Through calm -- through tempest -- stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting-place To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or -- if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet -- Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

by Thomas Moore | |


 Some men are born to gather women's tears,
To give a harbour to their timorous fears,
To take them as the dry earth takes the rain,
As the dark wood the warm wind from the plain;
Yet their own tears remain unshed,
Their own tumultuous fears unsaid,
And, seeming steadfast as the forest and the earth
Shaken are they with pain.
They cry for voice as earth might cry for the sea Or the wood for consuming fire; Unanswered they remain Subject to the sorrows of women utterly - Heart and mind, Subject as the dry earth to the rain Or the dark wood to the wind.

by Thomas Moore | |

Remember Thee!

 Remember thee! yes, while there's life in this heart, 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art; 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But oh! could I love thee more deeply tha now? No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons -- Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest, Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

by Thomas Moore | |

St. Senanus and the Lady

Senanus "On! haste, and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's feet by trod!" The Lady "Oh! Father, send not hence my bark Through wintry winds and billows dark, I come, with humble heart, to share Thy morn and evening prayer; Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint.
" The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd; The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.
But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light delay'd, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

by Thomas Moore | |

Ive a Secret to Tell Thee

 I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here -- 
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: 
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, 
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; 
Where Summer's wave unmurmuring dies, 
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; 
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, 
The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!" 

There, amid the deep silence of that hour, 
When stars can be heard in ocean dip, 
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, 
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: 
Like him, the boy, who born among 
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, 
Sits ever thus -- his only song 
To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

by Thomas Moore | |

Where is the Slave

 Oh, where's the slave so lowly, 
Condemn'd to chains unholy, 
Who, could he burst 
His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay'd it, 
When thus its wing 
At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it? 

Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch'd and blowing, 
Than that whose braid 
Is pluckd to shade 
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o'er us, The friends we've tried Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

by Thomas Moore | |

While Gazing on the Moons Light

 While gazing on the moon's light, 
A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
To look at orbs that, more bright, 
In lone and distant glory burn'd.
But too far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere, Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own, While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone That bless my home and guide my way.
The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet, Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while The moon's smile Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this;" And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me.

by Thomas Moore | |

When He Who Adores Thee

 When he, who adores thee, has left but the name 
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 
Of a life that for thee was resign'd? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 
Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

by Thomas Moore | |

Wheneer I See Those Smiling Eyes

 Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, 
So full of hope, and joy, and light, 
As if no cloud could ever rise, 
To dim a heaven so purely bright -- 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 
In grief may lose its every ray, 
And that light heart, so joyous now, 
Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights, The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind, And love, that leaves, where'er it lights, A chill'd or burning heart behind: While youth, that now like snow appears, Ere sullied by the darkening rain, When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears, Can never shine so bright again.

by Thomas Moore | |

While Historys Muse

 While History's Muse the memorial was keeping 
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, 
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, 
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.
"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known; Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, And, bright o'er the flood Of her tears, and her blood, Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name.

by Thomas Moore | |

Thee Thee Only Thee

 The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, 
The night's long hours still find me thinking 
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd, And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark To the ocean hurries, resting never, Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, I know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing, And pain itself seems sweet when springing From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break, Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee.

by Thomas Moore | |

What the Bee Is To the Floweret

 What the bee is to the floweret, 
When he looks for honey-dew, 
Through the leaves that close embower it, 
That, my love, I'll be to you.
-- What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear.
-- But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone, And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.
-- Nay, if flowers will lose their looks If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them, while they may.

by Thomas Moore | |

Though the Last Glimpse of Erin With Sorrow I See

 Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, 
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; 
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

by Thomas Moore | |

Tis the Last Rose of Summer

 Tis the last rose of summer 
Left blooming alone; 
All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone: 
No flower of her kindred, 
No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

by Thomas Moore | |

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 warn'd 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 ruin'd 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 join'd in hate, You never join'd 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 in heaven!"

by Thomas Moore | |

The Harp That Once Through Taras Halls

 The harp that once through Tara's halls 
The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 
As if that soul were fled.
-- So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

by Thomas Moore | |

It Is Not the Tear At This Moment Shed

 It is not the tear at this moment shed, 
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, 
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.
Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them.
And as fresher flowers the sod perfume Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom From the image he left there in dying!

by Thomas Moore | |

The Legacy

 When in death I shall calmly recline, 
O bear my heart to my mistress dear, 
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call.
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.

by Thomas Moore | |

The Light of Other Days

 OFT, in the stilly night, 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me: 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of boyhood's years, 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 The eyes that shone, 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me.
When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

by Thomas Moore | |

The Meeting of the Waters

 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no, -- it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

by Thomas Moore | |

The Minstrel Boy

 The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, 
In the ranks of death you'll find him; 
His father's sword he has girded on, 
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell! -- but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery.

by Thomas Moore | |

The Origin of the Harp

 Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee 
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; 
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved, 
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep, Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same -- While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

by Thomas Moore | |

The Song of Fionnuala

 Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, 
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter 
Tell's to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world? Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?