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When young, I loved, at that delicious age
So sweet, so short, love was my sole delight;
And when I reached the season to be sage,
Still I loved on, for reason gave me right.

Age comes at length, and livelier joys depart,
Yet gentle ones still kiss these eyelids dim;
For still I love, and love consoles my heart;
What could console me for the loss of him?



Moore's damning sin, according to the critics, is levity; but surely if he were even cursed or blessed with greater frailties and weaknesses than other men, the following lines should be more than a sufficient atonement for all his transgressions. We have no hesitation. to say, that the sentiments are conceived with a delicacy of feeling and a chastity of imagination, and that the terms of the language in which they are expressed, are selected with a nicety and accuracy of discrimination, which not only places the poet beyond the vulgar bounds of the critic, but to the beauties, of which no critic can do adequate justice. There is a beauty in sentiment and fine feeling, which can neither be analysed nor explained, while the faults of writers lie always on the surface, and consequently can be laid hold on, and held up to public derision. Deformity is always a protuberance which lies on the exterior of bodies, but beauty is a gem which retires from the public gaze, and modestly conceals itself from the stupid stare of those who can neither discriminate its perceptions, nor become sensible of its charms. No wonder, then, that critics should eternally dwell on the faults of writers, and be eternally blind to their re

deeming beauties, because the former are gross and palpable, the latter visible only to the eye of genius. The Edinburgh Review professed, at its commencement, to review only works of merit; and yet who could imagine from its system of reviewing, that a work of merit ever fell into the hands of its conductor?.-ED.

"I may be cold-may want that glow

Of high romance, which bards should know,
That holy homage, which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt-
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

I fear, I feel, I have it not,
For here, at this still hour, to me
The charms of this delightful spot--
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget,
This narrow valley, and the song,

Of its small murmuring rivulet--
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden, ere the startling words

Of man disturbed their orisons!
Those little, shadowy paths that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows like the snatches
Of far off scenes of light, which hope

Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches !

All this, which could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness, all the heavenliest hues
Of genius, can no more disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
With filth of fens o'er which they play-

This scene which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is

Of love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss.
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the virtues meet;
Which while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequestered rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams
Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ-
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,
The moonlight of the morning's joy!
All this my heart could dwell on here,

But for those hateful memories near,
Those sordid truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire and strife,

And vanities of that man's life,

Who more than all that e'er have glow'd,
With fancy's flame (and it was his,

If ever given to mortal) show'd
What an imposter genius is-

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How, with that strong, mimetic art,
Which is its life and soul, it takes

All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,

Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes

How like a jem its light may smile

O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,


Itself as mean a worm, the while,

As crawls along the sullying sod―
What sensibility may fall

From its false lip, what plans to bless,
While home, friends, kindred, country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness.
How, with the pencil hardly dry

From colouring up such scenes of love
And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,

And dream, and think through heaven they rove,

They who can thus describe and move,

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The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor ask a heaven above,

Some Mamau's or Theresa's arms!
"How all, in short, that makes the boast
Of their false tongues they want the most;
And, while with freedom on their lips,
Sounding her timbrels to set free

This bright world, labouring in the eclipse
Of priestcraft and of slavery,
They may, themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made,
To blossom in his smile, or grow,

Like stunted brushwood, in his shade!
Out on the craft!-I'd rather be

One of those hinds that round me tread,

With just enough of sense to see

The noon-day sun that's o'er my head,
Than thus with high-built genius curst,

That hath no heart for its foundation,
Be all at once, that's brightest-worst-
Sublimest-meanest in creation!"


With other Poems, and Fables from La Fontaine. By E. P. Wolferstan.

A CRITIC, commenting on the following beautiful lines, professes to admire the image conveyed by The play

Of moonlight on the wave.

We should admire it also if we did not know it to be a copy of a still more beautiful image.

How sweet the moonbeam sleeps on yonder bank. The imitation is so obvious that we could not profess to admire it without becoming imitators ourselves, for this image has been admired over and over by the critics. At the same time, we do not find fault with its introduction here in a new dress, and we consider the entire passage exceedingly tender and poetic.


Beats there a heart no care is near

No sorrow dare invade ?

Glows there a cheek where never tear

Has taught the rose to fade?

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