Thomas Moore


    Biographical information

  1. Believe me
  2. Hark! The Vesper Hymn Is Stealing
  3. She Is Far from the Land
  4. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
  5. The Time I've Lost

    Biographical information
      Name: Thomas Moore
      Place and date of birth: Dublin (Ireland); 28 May 28, 1779
      Place and date of death: Wiltshire (England); 25 February 25, 1852 (aged 72)

      Believe me
        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.

      Hark! The Vesper Hymn Is Stealing
        Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing
        O'er the waters soft and clear;
        Nearer yet and nearer pealing,
        And now bursts upon the ear:
        Jubilate, Amen.
        Farther now, now farther stealing,
        Soft it fades upon the ear:
        Jubilate, Amen.
        Now, like moonlight waves retreating
        To the shore, it dies along;
        Now, like angry surges meeting,
        Breaks the mingled tide of song:
        Jubilate, Amen.
        Hush! again, like waves, retreating
        To the shore, it dies along:
        Jubilate, Amen.

      She Is Far from the Land
        She is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,
        And lovers are round her, sighing;
        But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
        For her heart in his grave is lying!.
        She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
        Every note which he lov'd awaking
        Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
        How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!.
        He had lov'd for his love, for his country he died,
        They were all that to life had entwin'd him,
        Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
        Nor long will his love stay behind him.
        Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,
        When they promise a glorious morrow;
        They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
        From her own lov'd Island of sorrow!.

      The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
        "They made her a grave too cold and damp
        For a soul so warm and true;
        And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
        Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
        She paddles her white canoe.
        And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
        And her paddle I soon shall hear;
        Long and moving our life shall be
        And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
        When the footstep of death is near".
        Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,
        His path was rugged and sore,
        Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
        Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
        And man never trod before.
        And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
        If slumber his eyelids knew,
        He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
        Its venemous tear, and nightly steep
        The flesh with blistering dew!.
        And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
        And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
        Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
        "Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,
        And the white canoe of my dear?".
        He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
        Quick over its surface play'd,
        "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
        And the dim shore echo'd for many a night
        The name of the death-cold maid.
        Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
        Which carried him off from the shore;
        Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
        The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
        And the boat return'd no more.
        But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
        This lover and maid so true
        Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
        To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
        And paddle their white canoe!.

      The Time I´ve Lost
        The time I've lost in wooing,
        In watching and pursuing
        The light that lies
        In woman's eyes,
        Has been my heart's undoing.
        Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
        I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
        My only books
        Were women's looks,
        And folly's all they taught me.
        Her smile when Beauty granted,
        I hung with gaze enchanted,
        Like him the Sprite
        Whom maids by night
        Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
        Like him, too, Beauty won me;
        But when the spell was on me,
        If once their ray
        Was turn'd away,
        O! winds could not outrun me.
        And are those follies going?
        And is my proud heart growing
        Too cold or wise
        For brillant eyes
        Again to set it glowing?
        No -- vain, alas! th' endeavour
        From bonds so sweet to sever:
        Poor Wisdom's chance
        Against a glance
        Is now as weak as ever.