The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| III, IV. |
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 | VI, VII. |
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| III. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
286
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.
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 seem'd the first evening I gaz'd!
Mont Blanc, like a vision, then suddenly rais'd
On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array
Of high-towering Alps, touch'd 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 splendours 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 step of Astræa, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!
Mont Blanc, like a vision, then suddenly rais'd
On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array
Of high-towering Alps, touch'd 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 splendours away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,
287
O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny step of Astræa, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!
That scene—I have view'd it this evening again,
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then—
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms—
Mont Blanc in his awfullest pomp—and the whole
A bright picture of Beauty, reclin'd in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?
Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone?
Clouds—clouds—they were nothing but clouds, after all!
That chain of Mont Blancs, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,
Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then—
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms—
Mont Blanc in his awfullest pomp—and the whole
A bright picture of Beauty, reclin'd in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?
Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone?
288
That chain of Mont Blancs, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,
Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.
What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night,
Drop thy curtain, at once, and hide all from my sight.
Drop thy curtain, at once, and hide all from my sight.
It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |