Thomas Moore

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

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

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;

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.

Lay his sword by his side it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still

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

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

‘Twas a new feeling – something more Than we had dar’d to own before, Which then we hid not; We saw it in each other’s eye, And wish’d in every broken sigh To speak,

One bumper at parting! though many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any Remains to be crown’d by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure hath in it Is

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

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

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;

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.

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, Weep o’er them in

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear, When half awaking from fearful slumbers, He thinks the full quire of heaven is near Than came that voice, when,

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

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,

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory, Long-buried dreams shall raise; Some lay that tells of vanish’d fame, Whose light once round us

“What! still those two infernal questions, That with our meals our slumbers mix That spoil our tempers and digestions Eternal Corn and Catholics! Gods! were there ever two such bores? Nothing else talk’d of

From this hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth of heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. When the proud and great stood

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

To Ladies’ eyes a round, boy, We can’t refuse, we can’t refuse; Though bright eyes so abound, boy, ‘Tis hard to choose, ’tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy

Silence is in our festal halls Sweet son of song! thy course is o’er; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel’s voice responds no more; All silent as the Eolian shell Sleeps

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,

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave Where the first

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

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

“Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o’er our orisans bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To heaven in mingled odour ascend. Do not disturb our calm, oh

Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray’d her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, Which he won from her proud invader, When her kings, with standard of green

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy

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

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

By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow’s strife; By that sun, whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life Oh! remember life can be No charm for him, who lives

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! And oh, above all, I admire that Decree, In which thou command’st, that all she politicians Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea. ‘Tis

Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we’d make it! So bright a

We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn’d with

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

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

Come o’er the sea, Maiden with me, Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where’er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and

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

She sung of Love, while o’er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o’er

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

Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients we know, (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,) Adorn’d with somniferous poppies, to show, Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman’s Goddess. Behold in his best,

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

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

Written on Returning a Blank Book Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still; Some hand, more calm and sage, The leaf must fill. Thoughts come, as pure as light Pure as even

Oh! doubt me not the season Is o’er when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. Although this heart was early blown, And fairest hands

Ne’er ask the hour what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures? The golden moments lent us thus Are not his coin, but Pleasure’s. If counting them o’er could add to

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