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Best Famous Thomas Moore Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Thomas Moore poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thomas Moore poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thomas Moore poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Thomas Moore poems.

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Written 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.

Written by Thomas Moore |


 Come riddle-me-ree, come riddle-me-ree,
And tell me, what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose; -- Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes; Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand, That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature, About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile I stalk hungry and bloated around, An object of int'rest, most painful, to all; In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found, Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, Come, tell me what my name may be.
When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eye-balls I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyz'd paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects through another to caper and prank it, You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to Gaul's overthrow, Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and -- the gout to his toe! But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, And, knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell, if thou knows't, who I may be.

Written 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.

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Written by Thomas Moore |

Avenging and Bright

 Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd! -- 
For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in 
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.
By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore -- By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore -- We swear to avenge them! -- no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head.
Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

Written 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.

Written by Thomas Moore |

Loves Young Dream

 Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
My heart's chain wove; 
When my dream of life, from morn till night, 
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one loved name.
No, -- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, tht ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that n'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

Written by Thomas Moore |

Drink To Her

 Drink to her who long 
Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers play'd, It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.
At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, "which might pass?" She answer'd, "he who could.
" With golden key Wealth thought To pass -- but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.
The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark mines.
But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above, Though woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

Written by Thomas Moore |

The Parallel

 Yes, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling, 
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart -- 
If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling" 
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down.
" Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.
Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the Forsaken," Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves! Yet hadst thou thy vengeance -- yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over, Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And a ruin at last for the earthworm to cover, The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.

Written by Thomas Moore |

Sublime Was the Warning

 Sublime was the warning that liberty spoke, 
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke 
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west -- Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights; If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same! And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave, Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

Written by Thomas Moore |

The Fortune-Teller

 Down in the valley come meet me to-night, 
And I'll tell you your fortune truly 
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light, 
To a young maiden, shining as newly.
But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me, Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.
If at that hour the heavens be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition -- the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.
And if to that phantom you'll be kind, So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 'Twixt him and a true living lover.
Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion -- An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.
What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

Written by Thomas Moore |

After the Battle

 Night closed around the conqueror's way, 
And lightnings show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day 
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimm'd, for ever crost -- Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honour's lost? The last sad hour of freedom's dream, And valour's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; -- If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this?

Written by Thomas Moore |

Fill the Bumper Fair

 Fill the bumper fair! 
Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions: So we, Sages, sit, And, 'mid bumpers brightening, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning.
Fill the bumper, etc.
Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit? It chanced, upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us: Fill the bumper etc.
The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfer'd fire in.
-- But oh, his joy, when, round The halls of heaven spying, Among the stars he found, The bowl of Bacchus lying! Fill the bumper, etc.
Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mix'd their burning treasure.
Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

Written by Thomas Moore |

Dialogue Between a Sovereign and a One-Pound Note

 Said a Sov'reign to a Note,
In the pocket of my coat,
Where they met in a neat purse of leather,
"How happens it, I prithee,
That though I'm wedded with thee,
Fair Pound, we can never live together?

Like your sex, fond of change,
With silver you can range,
And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
While with me -- upon my word
Not my Lady and my Lord
Of W--stm--th see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side),
"Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir --
One cannot look askance,
But, whip! you're off to France,
Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.
Your scampering began from the moment Parson Van, Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter; "For better or for worse" Is the usual marriage curse, But ours is all "worse" and no "better.
" In vain are laws pass'd, There's nothing holds you fast Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you -- At the smallest hint in life, Your forsake your lawful wife, As other Sovereigns did before you.
I flirt with Silver, true -- But what can ladies do, When disown'd by their natural protectors? And as to falsehood, stuff! I shall soon be false enough, When I get among those wicked Bank Directors.
" The Sovereign, smiling on her, Now swore, upon his honour, To be henceforth domestic and loyal; But, within an hour or two, Why -- I sold him to a Jew, And he's now at No.
10, Palais Royal.

Written 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.

Written by Thomas Moore |

An Argument

 I've oft been told by learned friars,
That wishing and the crime are one,
And Heaven punishes desires
As much as if the deed were done.
If wishing damns us, you and I Are damned to all our heart's content; Come, then, at least we may enjoy Some pleasure for our punishment!