Thomas Moore is an Irish poet, singer, songwriter, and entertainer, now best remembered for the lyrics of The Minstrel Boy and The Last Rose of Summer. He was responsible, with John Murray, for burning Lord Byron's memoirs after his death. In his lifetime he was often referred to as Anacreon Moore.
Thomas Moore was born at 12 Aungier-street in Dublin, Ireland, on 28 May 1779. over his father's grocery shop, his father being from an Irish speaking Gaeltacht in Kerry and his mother, Anastasia Codd, from Wexford. He had two younger sisters, Kate and Ellen.
From a relatively early age Moore showed an interest in music and other performing arts. He ... more »
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Thomas Moore Poems
Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young...
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Live fairy-gifts fading away,
I've oft been told by learned friars, That wishing and the crime are one, And Heaven punishes desires As much as if the deed were done.
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.
At the Mid Hour of Night
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
As a Beam O'er the Face of the Waters Ma...
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
Alone in Crowds to Wander On
Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved Shed round us once, where'er we roved --
Tis the Last Rose of Summer
Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone:
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.
Cotton and Corn
Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day, As they met and exchang'd salute- (Squire Corn in his carriage so gay, Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot) :
Dear Harp of my Country
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of Silence had hung o'er thee long. When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song.
Oft, in the Stilly Night
Oft, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me;
All In a Family Way
My banks are all furnished with rags, So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em; I've torn up my old money-bags, Having little or nought to put in 'em.
Come O'er the Sea
Come o'er the sea, Maiden with me, Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll,
By That Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore
By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
Quotationsmore quotations »
''A pretty wife is something for the fastidious vanity of a roué to retire upon.''Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. quoted by Lord Byron in a letter, Jan. 16, 1814. Byron's Letters and Journals, vol. 4 (1975).
''It is only to the happy that tears are a luxury.''Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. "Prologue No. 2," Lalla Rookh.
Comments about Thomas Moore
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Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Live 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 may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never ...