thomas moore

Tis Sweet To Think

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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.

 

– Thomas Moore

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Tis Gone, And For Ever

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‘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.

 

– Thomas Moore

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I Wish I Was By That Dim Lake

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I wish I was by that dim Lake,
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death’s cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should n’er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quivering o’er my head,
Like man, unquiet even when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life’s deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o’ercharged with gloom
Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench’d, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmmoved by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that’s thrown
Within their current turns to stone.

 

– Thomas Moore

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28th May – On This Day In History

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Born:

1779 Thomas Moore (poet)

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Died:

1984 Eric Morecambe (actor & comedian – Morecambe & Wise)

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On This Day:

1919 Armenia declares its independence 

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Have a good Monday, 28th May

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We May Roam Through This World

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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,
We may order our wings and be off to the west:
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own green isle,
For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.
Then, remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery placed within call;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden’s but carelessly watch’d after all.
Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells;
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,
But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye.
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,
Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,
The same as he look’s when he left the shore.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

 

– Thomas Moore

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Sweet Innisfallen

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Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell —
To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory’s dream that sunny smile,
Which o’er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.

‘Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care —
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world’s rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hour
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o’er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow’s veil on beauty’s brow.

For, though unrivall’d still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But, thus in shadow, seem’st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest —

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden’s, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o’er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears —
For though but rare thy sunny smile,
‘Tis heaven’s own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine —
The brightest light the sun e’er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

 

– Thomas Moore

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The Dream Of Those Days

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The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o’er
Thy triumph hath stain’d the charm thy sorrows then wore;
And even the light which Hope once shed o’er thy chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;
And Freedom’s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn’d,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn’d?

Up Liberty’s steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fix’d, how proud was thy tread!
Ah, better thou ne’er hadst lived that summit to gain,
Denied in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.

 

– Thomas Moore

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Song Of The Evil Spirits Of The Woods

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Now the vapor, hot and damp,
Shed by day’s expiring lamp,
Through the misty ether spreads
Every ill the white man dreads;
Fiery fever’s thirsty thrill,
Fitful ague’s shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller’s song,
As he winds the woods along;-
Christian, ’tis the song of fear;
Wolves are round thee, night is near,
And the wild thou dar’st to roam-
Think, ’twas once the Indian’s home!

Hither, sprites, who love to harm,
Wheresoe’er you work your charm,
By the creeks, or by the brakes,
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,
And the cayman loves to creep,
Torpid, to his wintry sleep:
Where the bird of carrion flits,
And the shuddering murderer sits,
Lone beneath a roof of blood;
While upon his poisoned food,
From the corpse of him he slew
Drops the chill and gory dew.

Hither bend ye, turn ye hither,
Eyes that blast and wings that wither
Cross the wandering Christian’s way,
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day,
Many a mile of maddening error
Through the maze of night and terror,
Till the morn behold him lying
On the damp earth, pale and dying.
Mock him, when his eager sight
Seeks the cordial cottage-light;
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,
Tempt him to the den that’s dug
For the foul and famished brood
Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood;
Or, unto the dangerous pass
O’er the deep and dark morass,
Where the trembling Indian brings
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,
Tributes, to be hung in air,
To the Fiend presiding there!

Then, when night’s long labor past,
Wildered, faint, he falls at last,
Sinking where the causeway’s edge
Moulders in the slimy sedge,
There let every noxious thing
Trail its filth and fix its sting;
Let the bull-toad taint him over,
Round him let mosquitoes hover,
In his ears and eyeballs tingling,
With his blood their poison mingling,
Till, beneath the solar fires,
Rankling all, the wretch expires!

 

– Thomas Moore

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The Origin Of The Harp

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Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till heaven look’d with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden’s form.

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiled the same —
While her sea-beauties gracefully form’d the light
And her hair, as, let loose, o’er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody’s spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love’s language with sorrow’s sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I’m near thee, and grief when away.

 

– Thomas Moore

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28th May – On This Day In History

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Born:

1779 Thomas Moore (Irish poet)

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Died:

1849 Anne Bronte (authoress) 

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On This Day:

1919 Armenia declares independence

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Have a good Saturday, 28th May

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