Rhymes On The Road. Extract I. Geneva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.^[1]--Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.--Obliged to proceed on Foot.--Alps.--Mont Blanc.--Effect of the Scene.


'Twas late--the sun had almost shone
His last and best when I ran on
Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the daybeams quite withdrew
And feeling as all feel on first
    Approaching scenes where, they are told,
Such glories on their eyes will burst
    As youthful bards in dreams behold.

'Twas distant yet and as I ran
    Full often was my wistful gaze
Turned to the sun who now began
    To call in all his out-posts rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.
Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power,
To stay the brightness of that hour?
But no--the sun still less became,
    Diminisht to a speck as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
    That on the Apostles' heads descended!

'Twas at this instant--while there glowed
    This last, intensest gleam of light--
Suddenly thro' the opening road
    The valley burst upon my sight!
That glorious valley with its Lake
    And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty and pure and fit to make
    The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.

I stood entranced--as Rabbins say
    This whole assembled, gazing world
Will stand, upon that awful day,
    When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me
    That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
    As e'er to mortal gaze was given.
Nor ever, were I destined yet
    To live my life twice o'er again,
Can I the deep-felt awe forget,
    The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of power
And life, beyond this mortal hour;--
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heaven--as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies;--
That proud assurance of our claim
    To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame--oh bitter shame!--
    At having riskt that splendid right,
For aught that earth thro' all its range
Of glories offers in exchange!
'Twas all this, at that instant brought
Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought--
'Twas all this, kindled to a glow
    Of sacred zeal which could it shine
Thus purely ever man might grow,
    Even upon earth a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstained the Elysian shade!

No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place.
And should my spirit's hope grow weak,
    Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,
    At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here at the sublimest shrine
    That Nature ever reared to Thee
Rekindle all that hope divine
    And feel my immortality!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

The Young Indian Maid.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Scepticism.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Shall I Woo?

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter IV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Rhymes On The Road. Extract VII. Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them.


Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope--
As one in fairy tale to whom the key
    Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly,
    If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven--
Let me a moment think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know--and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like PSAPHON'S birds^[1] speaking their master's name,
In every language syllabled by Fame?--
How all who've felt the v...

Thomas Moore

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter I.

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.


Well may you wonder at my flight
    From those fair Gardens in whose bowers
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright,
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light,
    Is left to grace this world of ours.
Well may my comrades as they roam
    On such sweet eyes as this inquire
Why I have left that happy home
    Where all is found that all desire,
    And Time hath wings that never tire:
Where bliss in all the countless shapes
    That Fancy's self to bliss hath given
Comes clustering round like roadside grapes
    That woo the traveller's lip at even;
Where Wisdom flings not joy away--
As Pallas in the stream they say
Once flung her flute--but smiling owns
That woman's lip can send forth tones
Wor...

Thomas Moore

A Vision Of Philosophy.

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met
The venerable man;^[1] a healthy bloom
Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought
That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke
'Twas language sweetened into song--such holy sounds
As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear,
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven,
When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed^[2]
His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland
As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers
That blossom in Elysium, breathed around,
With silent awe we listened, while he told
Of the dark veil which many an age had hung
O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man,
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous,
And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:--
Of magic wonders, that were known and ...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract III. Geneva.

Fancy and Truth--Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.--Clouds.


Even here in this region of wonders I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;
Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed!
MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised
On the wreck of the sunset--and all his array
    Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,
    As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
Then the dying at last of these splendors away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,
One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,
    O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny ...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XIV. Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced.


Filled with the wonders I had seen
    In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,
I felt the veil of sleep serene
Come o'er the memory of each scene,
    As twilight o'er the landscape falls.
Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,

Thomas Moore

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter II.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.


'Tis true, alas--the mysteries and the lore
I came to study on this, wondrous shore.
Are all forgotten in the new delights.
The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights.
Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak
From subterranean temples, those I seek
Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives,
And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives.
Instead of honoring Isis in those rites
At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights
Her first young crescent on the holy stream--
When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam
And number o'er the nights she hath to run,
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.
While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends
A clew into past times the stu...

Thomas Moore