The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

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
Declar'd, 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,
Through Milan, and that land, which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest —
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

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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, ev'n in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes
The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes—
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend —long, truly dear—
Thine, and thy lov'd Olivia's lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
Still more so every note she sings—
Like an inspir'd young Sibyl , glowing
With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied
In music to her, as in love,

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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 day long,
Till Time itself seem'd chang'd, at last,
To music, and we liv'd in song!
Turning the leaves of Haydn o'er,
As quick, beneath her master hand,
They open'd all their brilliant store,
Like chambers, touch'd by fairy wand;
Or o'er the page of Mozart bending,
Now by his airy warblings cheer'd,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
Voices, through which the heart was heard.

And still, to lead our evening choir,
Was He invok'd, thy lov'd-one's Sire —
He, who, if aught of grace there be
In the wild notes I write or sing,

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First smooth'd their links of harmony,
And lent them charms they did not bring;—
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employ'd in his sweet art,
(That art, which gives this world of ours
A notion how they speak in heaven,)
I've pass'd 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—though 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 wander'd from my theme!
But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
Through 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.

Bergamo—the birth-place, it is said, of Harlequin.

The Lago di Garda.

Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazzo Borghese at the Capitol, &c.

Sir John Stevenson.