Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

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.

Search for the best famous Thomas Moore poems, articles about Thomas Moore poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Thomas Moore poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
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.

More great poems below...

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 |

My Gentle Harp

 My gentle Harp, once more I waken 
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; 
In tears our last farewell was taken, 
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But, like those harps whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes -- that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Though joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure As ill would suit the swan's decline! Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When even the wreaths in which I dress thee Are sadly mix'd -- half flowers, half chains? But come -- if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding, Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill -- Like Memnon's broken image sounding, 'Mid desolation tunefull still!

Written by Thomas Moore |

As Slow Our Ship

 As slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was cleaving, 
Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts as on we rove, To those we've left behind us.
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years We talk, with joyous seeming, -- With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us.
And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enhanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heaven had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us! As travellers oft look back at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing -- So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left beind us.

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 |

The Night Dance

 Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high, 
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, 
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, 
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes -- the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heaven look'd brightest Again! Again! Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers! Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us -- While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And, listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us? Again, that strain! -- to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding -- Again! Again! Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together.

Written by Thomas Moore |

An Incantation

 Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles, as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy -- or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
from its frothy element!
Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of bubbles, as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny W--lks, Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks; Mix the lather - who can be Fitter for such task than thee, Great M.
for Sudsbury! For the frothy charm is ripe, Puffing Peter bring thy pipe, -- Thou, whom ancient Coventry, Once so dearly lov'd, that she Knew not which to her was sweeter, Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter; -- Puff the bubbles high in air, Puff thy best to keep them there.
Bravo, bravo, Peter M--re! Now the rainbow humbugs soar, Glitt'ring all with golden hues, Such as haunt the dreams of Jews; -- Some reflecting mines that lie Under Chili's glowing sky, Some, those virgin pearls that sleep Cloister'd in the southern deep; Others, as if lent a ray Form the streaming Milky Way, Glist'ning o'er with curds and whey From the cows of Alderney.
Now's the moment -- who shall first Catch the buble, ere they burst? Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm-t-n; -- John W--lks junior runs beside ye! Take the good the knaves provide ye! See, with upturn'd eyes and hands, Where the Shareman, Bri-gd-n, stands, Gaping for the froth to fall Down his gullet - lye and all.
See!---But hark my time is out -- Now, like some great water-spout, Scaterr'd by the cannon's thunder, Burst, ye bubbles, burst asunder!

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 |

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.

Written by Thomas Moore |

Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes

 Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies, 
Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy suns with doubtful gleam, 
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form in heaven's sight One arch of peace!

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 |

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 |

Drink of This Cup

 Drink of this cup; -- you'll find there's a spell in 
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen; 
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it! Send round the cup -- for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Never was philter form'd with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup -- you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
And though, perhaps -- but breathe it to no one -- Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And, even though it taste of the smoke of that flame Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden -- Fill up -- there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup -- for oh there's a spell in Its very drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.