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subjects of tenderness and passion, The imitation of Prior's style in one assembles together the most remote department of Moore's compositions, and discordant agreements, in a man- may be evident, by recurring to the ner of all others the least indicative of smoothness and colloquial ease of the true feeling in the poet, and the most following song, taken from the writings destructive of it in his hearers. A good of his prototype, and which, except for many illustrations of this tendency will the absence of any very extravagant con. occur in the course of the extracts we ceits, we might almost have ascribed have afterwards to make.

to the bard of Erin himself

“ Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face !

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd;
Pr’ythee quit this caprice ; and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us ev'n talk a little like folks of this world.

“ How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping ?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:

More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

“ To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:

'od's-life ! must one swear to the truth of a song?

" What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows

The difference there is betwixt Nature and Art :
I court others in verse ; but I love thee in prose :

And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

“ The god of us verse-men, (you know, child,) the Sun,

How, after his journey, he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run :

At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.

“ So, when I am weary'd with wandering all day,

To thee, my delight, in the evening I come :
No matter what beauties I saw in my way ;

They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

" Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war ;

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree :
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,

As he was a poet sublimer than me.

The style, we think, in which Moore has no doubt greatly contributed to most excels, is where simple tender their success, that his peculiar and ness of feeling is expressed in the practical knowledge of music enabled simplest language, without aiming at him to adapt them always, with per. imagery or ornament. He undoubt- fect felicity in point of accent and edly possesses sensibility, and often articulation, to the melodies with succeeds in giving utterance to it in a which they are associated. touching manner; but he is not We shall give two examples of equally successful where he attempts Moore's lighter lyrics, in which we to combine pathetic with imaginative think great facility of expression is ideas.

united to any thing but facility of It must be observed, with regard to thought. Moore's lyrics, and the circumstance

" Oh! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest! for thee I'd sigh ;
And every smile on my cheek should turn

To tears, when thou art nigh.

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It is certainly not easy to con- that the most sentimental semstress ceive more laborious trifling, or less could be delighted or caught by it, enlivening mirth, than most of the if she understood what it meant. It images in this song. The two last is an incongruous monster, having lines are tolerable : but all the rest no harmony of parts, and altogether would have been poor, even as im- false in feeling and taste. With the promptus in a drawing-room, and nonchalance and levity of libertinism are insufferable when delivered from in its general tone, it has the stiffness the press, as the work, for aught wo of operose study in its details, and is know, of hours or days of mature me- not calculated to please the gay, while ditation. To what persons, we would it must be despised by the severe. ask, is such a song as this address. The next specimen we shall take ed, either as a topic of persuasion from the Irish melodies. It is in a

a source of pleasure? It is different style, and professes to have thinking poorly of the sex, to imagine more seriousness in its merriment.

or as

“ Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief

To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue,

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

" Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

If he kneel not before the same altar with me ?
From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ?
No! perish the hearts and the laws that try

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this !".

These lines, we presume, were glasses, will not appear very convin. written to advance the cause of Ca- cing, except to those who are already tholic Emancipation ; but, although satisfied that differences in religion are they have some spirit and plausibility, equally unimportant as the colour of a they are not very cogent, and resolve drinking-cup-a sentiment which is a good deal into a petitio principi. probably not very prevalent among The novel though not striking illus. Protestants, and certainly not more so. tration, of the blue and purple punch- among Roman Catholics. The last verse,

if it proves any thing, either as to pub- by any serious or any poetical standlic or as to private practice, seems to ard. Let us turn to some more amprove too much; as it establishes not bitious or more admired samples of only that different shades of Christian

Moore's lyrical powers. belief are to be overlooked, but that And first, turning to the Irish we should without hesitation marry a melodies. We presume that the Mahometan, or choose our public “ Meeting of the Waters” will be functionaries from the votaries of the considered a fair specimen of Moore's vilest idolatry.

more serious, though not of his most But it is wrong to try these trifles lofty style. Let us examine it.

“ There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

" Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh no! it was something more exquisite still.

"'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

“ Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

improve ;

We doubt if there be much poetry tain landscape. The third stanza is here. The first verse is commonplace, eminently prosaic. We do not happen and indifferently written. The dis- to remember a more pedestrian pastinction between a valley and a vale sage in lyric poetry than the linewe do not understand. “ Feeling and

" Who felt how the best charms of nature life” need not both be given : either will do. The image which connects the bloom of the valley with the rays

nor is our opinion of the poet's powers of life and feeling, is either unmeaning, of wing very much exalted by the litor is so obscurely presented to us, as tle flutter that is attempted in the line to be no image at all. The first couplet that follows. We question if the last of the second stanza reminds us less

stanza is very congruous, as “a bosom of the dreamy loveliness of natural

of shade," if there be such a thing, is scenery than of a neatly covered dine better calculated to protect against a ner-table, well furnished with cham- burning sky than against a cold world. pagne and hock glasses : while the

The idea with which the song con. exclamation

cludes, of hearts mingling like waters, O no! it was something more exquisite is more of a quibble than of a poetical still,'

figure. might in the same way be best applied Our next example, we believe, is to the gastronomic feelings, or is fitter equally popular, but does not appear to express the admiration of a cockney to be much more deserving of praise than of a poet in the midst of a moun. as a poetical effusion.




“ Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away!
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart,

Would entwine itself verdantly still !

" It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear!
Oh! the heart that has truly loved, never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns to her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turn'd when he rose."

There is a great deal of good feeling original, must always be pleasing from in the sentiment of this song ; but we their tenderness and beauty. They desiderate in it any poetical genius, were written, we believe, as a tribute such as the subject is calculated to in- to the memory of one whose genius spire.

The lines are either quite and goodness well deserved the praises prosaic, únrelieved by any novelty of and the tears of poetry:thought or delicacy of expression; or tricked out with imagery little worthy of

" I saw thy form in youthful prime, the theme which it is employed to adorn.

Nor thought that pale decay The conclusion of the second stanza is

Would steal before the steps of time, very characteristic of its author,

And waste its bloom away, Mary! " Around the dear ruin each wish of my

Yet still thy features wore that light

Which fleets not with the breath, heart,

And life ne'er look'd more truly bright Would entwine itself verdantly still."

Than in thy smile of death, Mary! is entirely in that fanciful style, which is calculated to dissipate feeling by As streams that run o'er golden mines, calling other and opposite faculties Yet humbly, calmly glide, into play.

But is the image thus Nor seem to know the wealth that shines presented to us a correct one ? If

Within their gentle tide, Mary! we understand the poet, he means So veil'd beneath the simplest guise, to represent his mistress as a ruin- Thy radiant genius shone, ed building, and himself as an ivy. And that which charm’d all other eyes, bush; and it is easy to compare the

Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary! verdant embraces of the plant to the strong attachments of affections. But If souls could always dwell above, we think there is this confusion in the Thou ne'er had'st left that sphere; simile, that the ivy's clasp is not ap

Or, could we keep the souls we love, propriately seen until the place be

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! comes a ruin. Round the ruined tower Though many a gifted mind we meet, or temple, ivy cannot be said to en

Though fairest forms we see, twine itself verdantly still. It is only

To live with them is far less sweet suffered to begin its addresses when

Than to remember thee, Mary!” the object of them is in ruins. The

There is some tenderness in reality, ivy, therefore, is not a true, any more

and more in appearance, in the lines than it is a natural or a pleasing re

we have next to quote; but we fear presentation of that ove, which first the details will not stand inspection. bestows its adoration where there is youth and beauty, and continues faith

“ Has sorrow thy young days shaded, ful and unchanged in declension and

As clouds o'er the morning fleet?

Too fast have those young days faded, decay. The sunflower in the end of

That even in sorrow were sweet. the song, is, in its fabulous or fancied

Does Time, with his cold wing, wither properties, à more correct similitude

Each feeling that once was dear ? of enduring constancy. But, however

Come, child of misfortune! hither, appropriate it may be for the device

I'll weep with thee tear for tear. of a valentine or the seal of a billetdoux, we can scarcely conceive a

" Has love to that soul so tender, lover of high and heartfelt emotions,

Been like our Lagenian mine ? descending to picture, by the sun

Where sparkles of golden splendour flower and “her god," the fond devo

All over the surface shine. tedness of his own noble spirit.

But if in pursuit we go deeper, The following lines have at least the Allured by the gleam that shone, merit of expressing elegantly and easily Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, ideas, which, though not striking or Like love, the bright ore is gone.

“ Has Hope, like the bird in the story nian mine, where, if you go below the That flitted from tree to tree

surface, the bright ore " like love" is With the talisman's glittering glory- gone? The illustration is here illus

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? trated by the original subject. It On branch after branch alighting,

might have been asked at once with The gem did she still display;

less trouble, has love been like love? And, when nearest and most inviting,

The story from the Arabian nights is Then waft the fair gem away?

still more far-fetched, and is not more

elevating or affecting. It is the con“ If thus the sweet hours have feeted,

stant recurrence in Moore's poetry of When sorrow herself look'd bright;

these ingenious, but too remote comIf thus the fond hope has cheated,

parisons, that checks the current of That led thee along so light; If thus, too, the cold world wither

our own feelings, by convincing us

that the poet could not himself be Each feeling that once was dear,

much affected by his subject, when Come, child of misfortune! hither,

he had leisure to look so diligently l'll weep with thee tear for tear.'

about him for the images that were to We like the first verse; and, in par. express it. The simile of the Lage. ticular, the lines that truly and ten nian mines is peculiarly unfortunate, derly represent the buoyant joyousness in reminding us of the “ sparkles of of early life, that even sorrow cannot golden splendour" which so often depress. The ideas in the stanzas that adorn the surface of the poet's own follow, are too curiously wire-drawn domain, without ensuring any very to have much power to move us. We profitable result to those who may may relish a passing allusion to Love's thence be induced “ in pursuit to go

“ Hope's delusive mine ;” but a deeper." detailed comparison of its disappoint- We think there is considerable ments with the failure of mining specu- power in our next example, though lations in Wicklow, is any thing but the rhythm is not melodious on the poetical or pathetic. The second reader's lips, and the subject is not stanza altogether is very poorly and developed with all the imagination or clumsily composed. It seems to run the skill which its wild solemnity might thus :Has love been like the Lage- admit of.


“ Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves

far-off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie dead?

« It is true! it is true! we are shadows cold and wan;
It is true! it is true! all the friends we loved are gone :

But oh! thus even in death,

So sweet is still the breath
Of the fields, and the flowers, in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That ere condemn'd we go

To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more !"

The song which we next insert seems a favourite with the poet's antiSaxon countrymen, who probably rank it on the same level that has been assigned to Bruce's Bannockburn Address in this country. It is not throughout correctly written or power. fully conceived ; but it possesses sufficient energy and enthusiasm to operate, we have no doubt, on an Irish mind like a spark upon tinder.

" O where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly ?
What soul whose wrongs degrade

Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once could spring
To the throne of Him who made it ?

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