Time poems
/ page 672 of 792 /
Song of the Battle Eve
© Thomas Moore
(Time -- the Ninth Century)
To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
Shall the Harp Then Be Silent
© Thomas Moore
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To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?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 -- where the last of her Patriots lies?
Quick! We Have But a Second
© Thomas Moore
Quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup while you may;
For time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!
Quantum Est Quod Desit
© Thomas Moore
'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, but did not!
One Bumper at Parting
© Thomas Moore
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.
Omens
© Thomas Moore
When daylight was yet sleeping under the pillow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
Oh, the Sight Entrancing
© Thomas Moore
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own
© Thomas Moore
Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;
Oh For the Swords of Former Time
© Thomas Moore
Oh for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them:
Ne'er Ask the Hour
© Thomas Moore
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.
Let Erin Remember the Days of Old
© Thomas Moore
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,
In the Morning of Life
© Thomas Moore
In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,
And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
I Saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime
© Thomas Moore
I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded
© Thomas Moore
Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Fly Not Yet
© Thomas Moore
Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
Farewell! -- But Whenever You Welcome the Hour
© Thomas Moore
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 with you.
Did Not
© Thomas Moore
'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dared to own before,
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.
Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
© Thomas Moore
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,
Sordello: Book the Fifth
© Robert Browning
"Embrace him, madman!" Palma cried,
Who through the laugh saw sweat-drops burst apace,
And his lips blanching: he did not embrace
Sordello, but he laid Sordello's hand
On his own eyes, mouth, forehead.
As Vanquish'd Erin
© Thomas Moore
As vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropp'd his loaded quiver.
