Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam;
The shrubs and laurels which I lov'd to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,
Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight!
But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes,
And weep for her who in the cold grave lies!

SONNET-WINTER EVENING AT HOME.

Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline
Of sharp December, through my cottage pane
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,

Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall,
Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze,
I think around me in this twilight gloom,

I but remark mortality's sad doom;

Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft, appear
In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere.

SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD.

So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,
Brief Time! and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer vapor steal away.

And have not they, who here forgotten lie
(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past),
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,
Nor thought it fled-how certain and how fast?

Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath

The pastor and his flock alike have slept,

And "dust to dust" proclaimed the stride of death. Another race succeeds, and counts the bour,

Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,

As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power;
So smiling, and so perishing the while.
I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near),
Proclaim the tidings of the village round,

While memory wept upon the good man's bier.
Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!
Enough, if we may wait in calm content

The hour that bears us to the silent sod; Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent, And leave the issue to thy will, O God.

THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.

When evening listened to the dripping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,

By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride
Reflects that stately structure on his side,

Within whose walls, as their long labors close,

The wanderers of the ocean find repose,

We wore in social ease the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I lingered on the river's marge alone;
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.

As thus I mused amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,
Two sailors-well I marked them (as the beam
Of parting day yet lingered on the stream,
And the sun sunk behind the shady reach)-
Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach.
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight
Forever! As I drew more anxious near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word! He who was blind
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind

That gently lifted his gray hair: his face
Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace.

The other fixed his gaze upon the light
Parting; and when the sun had vanished quite,
Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,

Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,
Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shore.
As they departed through the unheeding crowd,
A caged bird sung from the casement loud;
And then I heard alone that blind man say,
"The music of the bird is sweet to-day!"
I said, "O Heavenly Father! none may know
The cause these have for silence or for woe!"
Here they appear heart-stricken or resigned
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.

There is a world, a pure unclouded clime,
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time!
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell
Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell,
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night,
They thought upon that world of distant light;
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;
Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head,
"No morn will shine on me till I am dead!"

THOMAS MOORE, 1780

THOMAS MOORE, the son of a respectable tradesman of Dublin, was born in that city on the 28th of May, 1780. After the usual preparatory course of study, he entered Trinity College, in his native city, where he graduated in November, 1799. He then went to England, and became a student in the Middle Temple, but, though ultimately called to the bar, he gave up his time chiefly to literary pursuits. In 1800, he published his translation of the "Odes of Anacreon," which were received with great favor, and elicited, from the Hon. Henry Erskine, the following complimentary impromptu :

"Ah! mourn not for Anacreon dead

Ah! weep not for Anacreon fled-
The lyre still breathes he touched before,
For we have one Anacreon Moore."

Soon after this he published his miscellaneous poems, under the title of "The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little"-a volume which was censured, and censured severely, for its licentiousness, and of which the author, many years afterwards, was heartily ashamed. In 1806, he visited our country, and published, shortly after his return to England, his remarks on American society and manners, in a volume entitled " Epistles, Odes,

and other Poems." This was reviewed with great and deserved severity in the "Edinburgh Review," by Mr. Jeffrey,' which caused Moore to send him a challenge. A meeting accordingly took place, but the duel was prevented by the interference of the police, and the ball of Jeffrey's pistol was found to have fallen out in the carriage. This gave rise to the story that paper bullets had been quietly substituted by the seconds for those of lead, as well as to Lord Byron's severe version of it in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which, for the time, so highly offended Moore, that he sent his brother bard a challenge; the latter, however, left England before it reached him, and, on his return, the two became reconciled, and ultimately warm personal friends.

In 1812 appeared his celebrated "Intercepted Letters, or The TwoPenny Post-Bag, by Thomas Brown, the Younger." This was followed by the "Fudge Family in Paris," and "Fables for the Holy Alliance;" -all satires upon the passing topics of the day; but-though evincing great wit, and a rich playful fancy, and for the time extremely popular-all destined to pass away and be forgotten. But not so his "Irish Songs and Melodies," and his "Hebrew Melodies," which display a depth of fervor, a richness of fancy, and a touching pathos, united to exquisite beauty and polish of versification, that will cause them to be read and admired as long as the English language endures.

In 1817 appeared his most elaborate poem, "Lalla Rookh," an oriental romance, the accuracy of which, as regards topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic details, has been vouched by numerous competent authorities; and which unites the purest and softest tenderness with the loftiest dignity, while its poetry "is brilliant and gorgeous-rich to excess

"The author may boast, if the boast can please him, of being the most licentious of modern versifiers, and the most poetical of those who, in our times, have devoted their talents to the propagation of immorality. We regard this book, indeed, as a public nuisance, and would willingly trample it down by one short movement of contempt and indignation, had we not reason to apprehend that it was abetted by patrons who are entitled to a more respectful remonstrance, and by admirers who may require a more extended exposition of their dangers."

Edinburgh Review, vol. viii. p. 456.

"Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven preserve his life,
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,

And guard it sacred in his future wars,

Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!

Can none remember that eventful day,

That ever glorious, almost fatal fray,

When LITTLE's leadless pistol met his eye,

And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by?

Oh day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,

Dunedin Castle felt a secret shock;

Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth,

Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north;
Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear,

The other half pursued his calm career."*

He means by this to insinuate that the English half of the river had nothing

to fear.

with imagery and ornament-and oppressive from its very sweetness and splendor. The genius of the poet moves with grace and freedom under his load of eastern magnificence, and the reader is fascinated by his prolific fancy, and the scenes of loveliness and splendor which are depicted with such vividness and truth." In 1823 came out " The Loves of the Angels," which contains many passages of great beauty, but, as a whole, inferior to his former productions. The poem is founded on "the Eastern story of the angels Harut and Marut, and the Rabbinical fictions of the lives of Uzziel and Shamchazai," with which Moore shadowed out "the fall of the soul from its original purity-the loss of light and happiness which it suffers in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures-and the punishments, both from conscience and Divine justice, with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven, are sure to be visited."

In 1825 was published his "Life of Sheridan," which, "with some omissions, and perhaps a few mistakes, some little faults of style, and some precipitate opinions, we do not hesitate to characterize as the best historical notice yet published of the events of our own times. Without pretending to give-what this generation can scarcely yet need—a particular or connected detail of the transactions to which it refers, it exhibits the clearest and most intelligent account of all the great questions which were agitated during that momentous period-the best estimate of the great events by which it was distinguished-and not only the ablest exposition of the causes which led to them, and the principles they served either to establish or expose, but the most truly impartial, temperate, and dispassionate view of the merits of the individuals concerned in them-the actual value of their services and amount of their offendings, with the excuses which the times or circumstances should suggest for them, that we ever recollect to have met with, in the difficult and dangerous department of contemporary history."

66

In 1830 appeared his "Life of Byron," in two volumes, by which, it has been well said, "neither the reputation of the author was advanced, nor the character of Lord Byron vindicated." In addition to these works, he is the author of "Corruption and Intolerance, a Poem;" "The Skeptic, a Philosophical Satire;" Rhymes on the Road;" "The Epicurean, a Tale;" and "The Life of Captain Rock." He has also written a number of miscellaneous pieces, both in prose and verse, which have been inserted in various periodical journals, and a large number of beautiful songs, which have become permanently popular.

No English poet of the present century has displayed a greater command of rich language and luxurious imagery than Thomas Moore, but, with the exception of his "Sacred Melodies" and a portion of "Lalla Rookh," we shall find but little elevated moral feeling, or wise and manly reflections. It has been well said that he has "worked little in the durable and permanent materials of poetry, but has spent his prime in enriching the stately

Edinburgh Review, vol. xlv. p. 2.