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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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Enigma

 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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
"
Written by Thomas Moore | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

I Saw From the Beach

 I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; 
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, 
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.
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