Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE LAKE OF GENEVA, by SAMUEL ROGERS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Last Line: Saying it was not! Subject(s): Geneva (lake), Switzerland; Leman, Lake | ||||||||
DAY glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sunbeam, where, alone and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff Lay with his circular and dotted line On the bright waters. When the heart of man Is light with hope, all things are sure to please; And soon a passage-boat swept gayly by, Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, And many a chanticleer and partlet caged For Vevey's market-place, -- a motley group Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone. The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro, Then bore them off. I am not one of those So dead to all things in this visible world, So wondrously profound, as to move on In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old (His name is justly in the Calendar) Who through the day pursued this pleasant path That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, And when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate, Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. They marvelled, as they might; and so must all, Seeing what now I saw: for now 't was day, And the bright sun was in the firmament, A thousand shadows of a thousand hues Checkering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories, That change their shapes forever as in sport; Then travelled onward and went down behind The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; And on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff, That dungeon-fortress never to be named, Where, like a lion taken in the toils, Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. Little did he, who sent him there to die, Think, when he gave the word, that he himself, Great as he was, the greatest among men, Should in like manner be so soon conveyed Athwart the deep, and to a rock so small Amid the countless multitude of waves, That ships have gone and sought it, and returned, Saying it was not! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONT BLANC AT SUNSET by THOMAS MOORE LAKE LEMAN AND CHILLON by HENRY MORFORD LAKE LEMAN by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS MIDNIGHT AT GENEVA by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE AN ALPINE DESCENT by SAMUEL ROGERS AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN REDBEAST by SAMUEL ROGERS THE GREAT SAINT BERNARD by SAMUEL ROGERS |
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