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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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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.


More great poems below...

by Thomas Moore | |

Enigma

 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

 St.
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 First I Met Thee

 When first I met thee, warm and young, 
There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, though false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go, The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies named, I fled the unwelcome story, Or found, in even the faults they blamed, Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; The heart that now thy falsehood rends Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go -- Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee; The few who loved thee once have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, No genial ties enwreath it; The smiling there, like light on graves, Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go -- go -- though worlds were thine, I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, When even those ties shall sever! When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever; On her who, in thy fortune's fall, With smiles had still received thee, And gladly died to prove thee all Her fancy first believed thee.
Go -- go -- 'tis vain to curse, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee.


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 | |

Wreath the Bowl

 Wreath the bowl 
With flowers of soul, 
The brightest Wit can find us, 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid The wreaths be hid That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear, While wine is near -- We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then, wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us.
We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.
'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos, And man may brew His nectar too, The rich receipt's as follows: Take wine like this, Let looks of bliss Around it well be blended, Then bring Wit's beam To warm the stream, And there's your nectar, splendid! So, wreath the bowl, With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us, We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did Time His glass sublime Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, Runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly? Oh, lend it us, And, smiling thus, The glass in two we'll sever, Make pleasure glide In double tide, And fill both ends for ever! Then, wreath the bowl With flowers of soul The brightest Wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.


by Thomas Moore | |

You Remember Ellen

 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, 
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, 
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains, Till William, at length, in sadness said, "We must seek our fortune on other plains;" -- Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roam'd a long and a weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees.
"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there; The wind blows cold, the hour is late;" So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bow'd, as they passd the gate.
"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaim'd the youth, -- "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!" She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.


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 | |

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 leap'd at that sweet lay; Nor paused to ask of greybeard 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 countroul, 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, And -- their laughing eyes, the while, concealing -- Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, Was like that rock of the Druid race, Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.


by Thomas Moore | |

They May Rail at this Life

 They may rail at this life -- from the hour I began it 
I found it a life full of kindness and bliss; 
And, until they can show me some happier planet, 
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes As before me this moment enraptured I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them, They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.
And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love, And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour, At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.
But though they were even more bright than the queen Of that Isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen, Why -- this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare, Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.


by Thomas Moore | |

This Life Is All Chequerd With Pleasures and Woes

 This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 
That chase one another like waves of the deep -- 
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, 
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup -- if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine.
But pledge me the goblet; -- while idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.


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.
She.
-- 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.
She.
-- 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.
He.
-- 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 Humble the Banquet

 Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee, 
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command; 
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, 
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.
'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves, Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.
'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved, The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling will blend her bright welcome with mine.


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 Gone And For Ever

 'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, 
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead -- 
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, 
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning, But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her letters indignantly starting, At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid! Then, then -- had one Hymn of Deliverance blended The tongues of all nations -- how sweet had ascended The first note of liberty , Erin, from thee! But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing! And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing The young hope of Freedom, baptised it in blood.
Then vanish'd for ever that fair sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian, As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.


by Thomas Moore | |

Tis Sweet to Think

 Tis sweet to think that, where'er we rove, 
We are sure to find something blissful and dear, 
And that, when we're far from the lips that we love, 
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there, And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but the're changeable too, And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.


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?