At The Mid Hour Of Night

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone valley 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
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it was once rapture to hear
When our voices, commingly, breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think,
O my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852)

At the Mid Hour of Night

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone valley 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
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear
When our voices, commingly, breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my said orison rolls,
I think, O my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852)

The Kiss

Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night
When, turning epicures in bliss,
We tried inventions of delight.'

Thomas Moore

And thus ends my little homage to Thomas Moore on the occasion of his 230th birthday. I wonder though, why he did not choose as title 'The Meeting of the Tongues'.

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.


'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
in thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

Thomas Moore *28th May 1779

The Young May Moon

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow - worm's lamp is gleaming, love;
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! - the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear;
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star - watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star
More glorious far
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or in watching the flight
Of bodies of light
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore

Echo

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away o'er lawns and lakes

Yet Love hath echoes truer far
And far more sweet
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute or soft guitar
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, - in youth sincere
And only then,
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear -
Is by that one, that only dear
Breathed back again.

Thomas Moore