Rhymes On The Road. Extract XII. Florence.

Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together.


If it be true that Music reigns,
    Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony so famous,
Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS
Declared had such transcendent merit
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come--from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Thro' MILAN and that land which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest^[1]--
By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave,
Which made VERONA'S bard so blest--
Places that (like the Attic shore,
Which rung back music when the sea
Struck on its marge) should be all o'er
Thrilling alive with melody--
I've heard no music--not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float
In my own land among the throng
And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer if not sweeter makes
The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes--
Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear,
    No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend^[2]--long, truly dear--
    Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
    Still more so every note she sings--
Like an inspired young Sibyl,^[3] glowing
    With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied
    In music to her, as in love,
Breathing that language by her side,
    All other language far above,
Eloquent Song--whose tones and words
In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past,
    Singing or listening all daylong,
Till Time itself seemed changed at last
    To music, and we lived in song!
Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er,
    As quick beneath her master hand
They opened all their brilliant store,
    Like chambers, touched by fairy wand;
Or o'er the page of MOZART bending,
    Now by his airy warblings cheered,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
    Voices thro' which the heart was heard.
And still, to lead our evening choir,
Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire^[4]--
He who if aught of grace there be
    In the wild notes I write or sing,
First smoothed their links of harmony,
    And lent them charms they did not bring;--
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employed in his sweet art,
(That art which gives this world of ours
    A notion how they speak in heaven.)
I've past more bright and charmed hours
    Than all earth's wisdom could have given.
Oh happy days, oh early friends,
    How Life since then hath lost its flowers!
But yet--tho' Time some foliage rends,
    The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;
And long may it endure, as green
And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme!
    But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
    Thro' which these best of feelings burn?--
Not all the works of Science, Art,
    Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh that from the heart
    Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

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

Remonstrance.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Wake Up, Sweet Melody.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Peace Be Around Thee. (Scotch Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Then, Fare Thee Well. (Old English Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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To Miss Moore. From Norfolk, In Virginia, November, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lulled with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour,
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And blest them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I lingered from that home away,
How long the little absence seemed!
How bright the look of welcome beamed,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Bolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.
Which used so oft, so quick to come,
S...

Thomas Moore

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

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract X. Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.


They tell me thou'rt the favored guest
    Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit like thine to wake the jest,
    No voice like thine to breathe the song.
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas! how different flows,
    With thee and me the time away!
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows--
    Still if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always loved to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run,
    And all the assembled world to see,--
All but the one, the absent one,

Thomas Moore

To Lord Viscount Strangford.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.


Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,^[1]
    By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,
    And write my thoughts, my wishes there;
How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recollection, kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise, never to forget,
And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,
I thought those pleasant times were past,
For ever past, when brilliant joy
Was all my vacant heart's employ:
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,
    We thought the rapid hours too few;
Our only use for k...

Thomas Moore

On Music.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
    Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
    In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
    Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
    In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
    Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
    That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
    Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
    Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
    Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
    When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's ...

Thomas Moore