The Alps At Day-Break.

The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck thro' the snow.

From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass. [1]

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

Samuel Rogers

Samuel Rogers was an English poet during the Romantic period. Born in 1763, he grew a reputation not for his volume of work but rather for the elegance and refinement of his poetry. His notable works include 'The Pleasures of Memory' which was well received. Rogers was also known for his role as a patron of the arts and his significant art collection. He passed away in 1855 and is often remembered more for his influence in literary circles than for his poetry itself.

Samuel Rogers

To A Voice That Had Been Lost. [1]

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

Captivity.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

To A Friend On His Marriage.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

To -----

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Boy Of The Alps.

Lightly, Alpine rover,
Tread the mountains over;
Rude is the path thou'st yet to go;
    Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee,
    Fields of ice before thee,
While the hid torrent moans below.
Hark, the deep thunder,
Thro' the vales yonder!
'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast;
    From rock to rock
    Rebounds the shock.
But courage, boy! the danger's past.
    Onward, youthful rover,
    Tread the glacier over,
Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last.
On, ere light forsake thee,
Soon will dusk o'ertake thee:
O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way!
    Now, for the risk prepare thee;
    Safe it yet may bear thee,
Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling!
'Tis the wolf prowling,--
Scent of thy track the foe hath...

Thomas Moore

The Alpine Hunter.

Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?
Oh, how soft and meek they look,
Feeding on the grassy sward,
Sporting round the silvery brook!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to chase the roe!"

Wilt thou not the flock compel
With the horn's inspiring notes?
Sweet the echo of yon bell,
As across the wood it floats!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to hunt the roe!"

Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,
Smiling gently in their bed?
For no garden thou wilt find
On yon heights so wild and dread.
"Leave the flow'rets, let them blow!
Mother, mother, let me go!"

And the youth then sought the chase,
Onward pressed with headlong speed
To the mountain's gloomiest place,
Naught his progress could impede;
And before him, l...

Friedrich Schiller

The Alpine Club Man.

    "Up the high Alps, perspiring madman, steam,
    To please the school-boys, and become a theme."
            Cf. Juv. Sat. x, v. 106.


    We who know not the charms of a glass below Zero,
    Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club hero;
    For no mortal below, contradict it who can,
    Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine Club man.

    When men of low tastes snore serenely in bed,
    He is up and abroad with a nose blue and red;
    While the lark, who would peacefully sleep in her nest,
    Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders her rest.

    Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten toes,
    The joyous procession exultingly goes;
    Above them the glaciers spectral are shining,
    But onward they march undismay'd, un...

Edward Woodley Bowling

Song Of The Wandering Jew

Though the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,
Broo...

William Wordsworth

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXIV. - The Italian Itinerant And The Swiss Goatherd. - Part II

I

With nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood, to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard!"
And, if there be a favoured hour
When Heroes are allowed to quit
The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,
On their Descendants shedding grace
This was the hour, and that the place.

II

But Truth inspired the Bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gav...

William Wordsworth

The Heart Of The Sourdough

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon;
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-gutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June:

There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the Silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber, and rose:

There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun -
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done.

*    *    *    *    *

I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings;
It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of t...

Robert William Service