To His Serene Highness The Duke Of Montpensier On His Portrait Of The Lady Adelaide Forbes.

Donington Park, 1802


To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
    Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
    The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
    And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
    Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
    The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,--
    And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
    In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
    On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene,
    The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek, that blushes to be seen.
    The eye that tells the bosom's truth;

While o'er each line, so brightly true,
    Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove,
Blessing the touch whose various hue
    Thus brings to mind the form we love;

We feel the magic of thy art,
    And own it with a zest, a zeal,
A pleasure, nearer to the heart
    Than critic taste can ever feel.

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 Exile.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Where Is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted? (Air.--Hasse.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Dreaming For Ever.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love's Young Dream.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Then First From Love.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
    Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
    To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
    Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
    To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
    Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
    But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
    So turning to that boy divine,
"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,
    "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

Thomas Moore

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XV. Rome.

Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.


No wonder, MARY, that thy story
    Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.
The soul's corruption and its glory,
    Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find
    Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,--like demons shrined
    Unholily in that fair form,--
Till when by touch of Heaven set free,
    Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY),
    And covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!--
Thence on thro' all thy c...

Thomas Moore

Epistle To Mr Jervas, With Mr Dryden's Translation Of Fresnoy's 'Art Of Painting.'

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine through long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear ...

Alexander Pope

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore

Lines Suggested By A Portrait From The Pencil Of F. Stone

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care
Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene
In Nature's prodigality displayed
Before my window, oftentimes and long
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich
The common light; whose stillness charms the air,
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits
With emblematic purity attired
In a white vest, white as her marble neck
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be
But for the shadow by the drooping chin
Cast into that recess, the tender shade,
The shade and light, both there and everywhere,
And through the very atmosphere she breathes,
Broad, clear, and toned harmon...

William Wordsworth