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Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we 'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon:
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Mr Moore now became a satirist, attempting first the grave serious style, in which he failed, but succeeding beyond almost any other poet in light satire, verses on the topics of the day, lively and pungent, with abundance of humorous and witty illustration. The man of the world, the scholar, and the poetical artist are happily blended in his satirical productions, with a rich and playful fancy. His Twopenny Post-bag, The Fudge Family in Paris, Fables for the Holy Alliance, and numerous small pieces written for the newspapers, to serve the cause of the Whig or Liberal party, are not excelled in their own peculiar walk by any satirical compositions in the language. It is difficult to select a specimen of these; but the following contains a proportion of the wit and poignancy distributed over all. It appeared at a time when an abundance of mawkish reminiscences and memoirs had been showered from the press.

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To write upon all, is an author's sole chance
For attaining at last the least knowledge of any.
Nine times out of ten, if his title is good,

The material within of small consequence is;
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,
Why that's the concern of the reader, not his.

Nota Bene-an Essay, now printing, to shew

That Horace, as clearly as words could express it, Was for taxing the Fundholders, ages ago,

When he wrote thus-'Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it.'*

As early as 1806, Mr Moore entered upon his noble poetical and patriotic task-writing lyrics for the ancient music of his native country. His Irish Songs displayed a fervour and pathos not found in his earlier works, with the most exquisite melody and purity of diction. An accomplished musician himself, it was the effort, he relates, to translate into language the emotions and passions which music appeared to him to express, that first led to his writing any poetry worthy of the name. Dryden,' he adds, "has happily described music as being" inarticulate poetry:" and I have always felt, in adapting words to an expressive air, that I was bestowing upon it the gift of articulation, and thus enabling it to speak to others all that was conveyed, in its wordless eloquence, to myself.' Part of the inspiration must also be attributed to national feelings. The old airs were consecrated to recollections of the ancient glories, the valour, beauty, or sufferings of Ireland, and became inseparably connected with such associations. Of the Irish Melodies, in connection with Mr Moore's songs, ten parts were published. Without detracting from the merits of the rest, it appears to us very forcibly, that the particular ditties in which he hints at the woes of his native country, and transmutes into verse the breathings of its unfortunate patriots, are the most real in feeling, and therefore the best. This particularly applies to When he who adores thee; Oh, blame not the bard; and Oh, breathe not his name; the first of which, referring evidently to the fate of Mr Emmet, is as follows:

When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh, say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep! and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
Oh, blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give,
Is the pride of thus dying for thee!

Next to the patriotic songs stand those in which a moral reflection is conveyed in that metaphorical form which only Moore has been able to realise in lyrics for music-as in the

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeu d'esprits,
Like Dibdin, may tell of each fanciful frolic;
Or kindly inform us, like Madam Genlis,
That ginger-beer cakes always give them the following example :
colic....

Funds, Physic, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,

All excellent subjects for turning a penny;

According to the common reading, 'Quodcunque infundis, acescit.' [A punning travesty of a maxim, Ep. ii., b. i., which Francis renders-' For tainted vessels sour what they contain.']

Irish Melody-'I saw from the Beach?

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on:
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining-
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known: Each wave that we danced on at morning, ebbs from

us,

And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life through his frame,

And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning,

Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame!

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Nature after a Storm.

How calm, how beautiful, comes on
The stilly hour when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity-
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scattered at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm-
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!
When 'stead of one unchanging breeze,

There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears-
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs!
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And even that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest.

In 1817 Mr Moore produced 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. The poetry is brilliant and gorgeous-rich to excess with imagery and ornament—and oppressive from its very sweetness and splendour. Of the four tales which, connected by a slight narrative, like the ballad stories in Hogg's Queen's Wake, constitute the entire poem, the most simple is Paradise and the Peri, and it is the one most frequently read and remembered. Still, the first -The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan—though improbable and extravagant as a fiction, is a poem of great energy and power. 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 splendour which are depicted with such vividness and truth. Hazlitt says that Moore should not have written Lalla Rookh, even for three thousand guineas-the price understood to be paid by the booksellers for the copyright. But if not a great poem, it is a marvellous work of art, and contains paintings of local scenery and manners, unsurpassed for fidelity and picturesque effect. The patient research and extensive reading required to gather the materials, would As true and picturesque, and more profound in have damped the spirit and extinguished the feeling, is the poet's allusion to the fickleness of fancy of almost any other poet. It was amidst the snows of two or three Derbyshire winters, he says, while living in a lone cottage among the fields, that he was enabled, by that concentration of thought which retirement alone gives, to call up around him some of the sunniest of those Eastern scenes which have since been welcomed in India itself as almost native to its clime. The poet was a diligent student, and his oriental reading was as good as riding on the back of a camel.' The romance of Vathek alone equals Lalla Rookh, among English fictions, in local fidelity and completeness as an Eastern tale. Some touches of sentiment and description have the grace and polish of ancient cameos. Thus, of retired beauty :

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love:

Alas-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied ;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!
A something light as air-a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken-
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this has shaken-
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;

And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone.

After the publication of his work, the poet set off
with Rogers on a visit to Paris. The 'groups
of ridiculous English who were at that time
swarming in all directions throughout France,'
supplied the materials for his satire, entitled The
Fudge Family in Paris (1818), which in popularity,
and the run of successive editions, kept pace with
Lalla Rookh. In 1819 Mr Moore made another
journey to the continent in company with Lord
John Russell, and this furnished his Rhymes on the
Road, a series of trifles often graceful and pleasing,
but so conversational and unstudied, as to be little
better to use his own words-than 'prose fringed
with rhyme.' From Paris the poet and his com-
panion proceeded by the Simplon to Italy. Lord
John took the route to Genoa, and Mr Moore
went on a visit to Lord Byron at Venice. On his
return from this memorable tour, the poet took up
his abode in Paris, where he resided till about the
close of the year 1822. He had become involved
in pecuniary difficulties by the conduct of the
person who acted as his deputy at Bermuda.
His friends pressed forward with eager kindness
to help to release him-one offering to place £500
at his disposal; but he came to the resolution of
' gratefully declining their offers, and endeavouring
to work out his deliverance by his own efforts."
In September 1822 he was informed that an
arrangement had been made, and that he might
with safety return to England. The amount of
the claims of the American merchants had been
reduced to the sum of one thousand guineas, and
towards the payment of this the uncle of his
deputy-a rich London merchant-had been
brought to contribute £300. The Marquis of
Lansdowne immediately deposited in the hands of
a banker the remaining portion (£750), which
was soon repaid by the grateful bard, who, in
the June following, on receiving his publisher's
account, found 1000 placed to his credit from
the sale of the Loves of the Angels, and £500
from the Fables of the Holy Alliance. The latter
were partly written while Mr Moore was at Venice
with Lord Byron, and were published under the
nom de guerre of Thomas Brown. The Loves of
the Angels (1823) was written in Paris. The
poem is founded on 'the Eastern story of the
angels Harut and Marut, and the Rabbinical
fictions of the loves of Uzziel and Shamchazai,' |
with which Mr 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 punish-
ments both from conscience and divine justice
with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous
inquiry into the awful secrets of heaven are sure
to be visited.' The stories of the three angels are
related with graceful tenderness and passion, but
with too little of the angelic air' about them.
He afterwards contributed a great number of
political squibs to the Times newspaper-witty
sarcastic effusions, for which he was paid at the
rate of about £400 per annum ! His latest im-
aginative work was The Epicurean, an Eastern
tale, in prose, but full of the spirit and materials
of poetry; and forming, perhaps, his highest and

best sustained flight in the regions of pure romance. Thus, remarkable for industry, genius, and acquirements, Mr Moore's career was one of high honour and success. No poet was more universally read, or more courted in society by individuals distinguished for rank, literature, or public service. His political friends, when in office, rewarded him with a pension of £300 per annum, and as his writings were profitable as well as popular, his latter days might have been spent in comfort, without the anxieties of protracted authorship. He resided in a cottage in Wiltshire, but was too often in London, in those gay and brilliant circles which he enriched with his wit and genius. In 1841-42 he gave to the world a complete collection of his poetical works in ten volumes, to which are prefixed some interesting literary and personal details. Latterly, the poet's mind gave way, and he sank into a state of imbecility, from which he was released by death, February 26, 1852.

Moore left behind him copious memoirs, journal, and correspondence, which, by the poet's request, were after his death placed for publication in the hands of his illustrious friend, Lord John Russell. By this posthumous work (which extended to eight vols. 1852-6) a sum of £3000 was realised for Moore's widow. The journal disappointed the public. Slight personal details, brief anecdotes and witticisms, with records of dinner-parties, visits, and fashionable routs, fill the bulk of eight printed volumes. His friends were affectionate and faithful, always ready to help him in his difficulties, and his publishers appear to have treated him with great liberality. He was constantly drawing upon them to meet emergencies, and his drafts were always honoured. Money was offered to him on all hands, but his independent spirit and joyous temperament, combined with fits of close application, and the brilliant success of all his works, poetical and prosaic, enabled him to work his way out of every difficulty. Goldsmith was not more potent in raising money, and melting the hearts of booksellers. Lord John Russell admits that the defect of Moore's journal is, that while he is at great pains to put in writing the stories and the jokes he hears, he seldom records a serious discussion, or notices the instructive portions of the conversations in which he bore a part. To do this would have required great time and constant attention. Instead of an admired and applauded talker, the poet must have become a silent and patient listener, and have possessed Boswell's servility of spirit and complete devotion to his hero and subject. Moore said that it was in high-life one met the best society. His friend Rogers disputed the position: and we suspect it will be found that, however agreeable such company may be occasionally, literary men only find real society among their equals. Moore loved high-life, sought after it, and from his genius, fame, and musical talents, was courted by the titled and the great. Too much of his time was frittered away in fashionable parties. Such a glittering career is dangerous. The noble and masculine mind of Burns was injured by similar patronage; and in recent times a man of great powers, Theodore Hook, was ruined by it. Another feature in Moore's journal is his undisguised vanity, which overflows on all occasions. He is never tired of recording the compliments paid to

his talents. But Lord John Russell has justly remembered by all. They are equally the delight characterised this weakness in Moore as being of the cottage and the saloon, and, in the poet's wholly free from envy. It never took the shape own country, are sung with an enthusiasm that of depreciating others that his own superiority will long be felt in the hour of festivity, as well might become conspicuous. 'His love of praise as in periods of suffering and solemnity, by that was joined with the most generous and liberal imaginative and warm-hearted people. dispensation of praise to others-he relished the works of Byron and Scott as if he had been himself no competitor for fame with them.' Ill success might have tinctured the poet's egotism with bitterness, but this he never knew; and such a feeling could not have remained long with a man so constitutionally genial and light-hearted.

When time shall have destroyed the remembrance of Moore's personal qualities, and removed his works to a distance, to be judged of by their fruit alone, the want most deeply felt will be that of simplicity and genuine passion. He has worked little in the durable and permanent materials of poetry, but has spent his prime in enriching the stately structure with exquisite ornaments, foliage, flowers, and gems. Yet he often throws into his gay and festive verses, and his fanciful descriptions, touches of pensive and mournful reflection, which strike by their truth and beauty, and by the force of contrast. Indeed, one effect of the genius of Moore has been, to elevate the feelings and occurrences of ordinary life into poetry, rather than dealing with the lofty abstract elements of the art. The combinations of his wit are wonderful. Quick, subtle, and varied, ever suggesting new thoughts or images, or unexpected turns of expression-now drawing resources from classical literature or the ancient fathers-now diving into the human heart, and now skimming the fields of fancy-the wit or imagination of Moore (for they are compounded together) is a true Ariel, 'a creature of the elements,' that is ever buoyant and full of life and spirit. His very satires 'give delight and hurt not.' They are never coarse, and always witty. When stung by an act of oppression or intolerance, he could be bitter or sarcastic enough; but some lively thought or sportive image soon crossed his path, and he instantly followed it into the open and genial region where he loved most to indulge. He never dipped his pen in malignity. For an author who has written so much as Moore on the subject of love and the gay delights of good-fellowship, it was scarcely possible to be always natural and original. Some of his lyrics and occasional poems, accordingly, present far-fetched metaphors and conceits, with which they often conclude, like the final flourish or pirouette of a stage-dancer. He exhausted the vocabulary of rosy lips and sparkling eyes, forgetting that true passion is ever direct and simple-ever concentrated and intense, whether bright or melancholy. This defect, however, pervades only part of his songs, and those mostly written in his youth. The Irish Melodies are full of true feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of memory, these national strains are the most popular and the most likely to be immortal of all Moore's works. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words-graceful in thought and sentiment-often tender, pathetic, and heroic-and they blend poetical and romantic feelings with the objects and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, yet apparently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared. The songs are read and

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer.

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine.
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne !
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!

;

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.

In 1817, Mr Murray published a small poetical volume under the eccentric title of Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by

William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket in Suffolk, Harness and Collar Makers. Intended to comprise the most Interesting Particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table. The world was surprised to find, under this odd disguise, a happy imitation of the Pulci and Casti school of the Italian poets. The brothers Whistlecraft formed, it was quickly seen, but the mask of some elegant and scholarly wit belonging to the higher circles of society, who had chosen to amuse himself in comic verse, without incurring the responsibilities of declared authorship. To two cantos published in the above year, a third and fourth were soon after added. The poem opens with a feast held by King Arthur at Carlisle amidst his knights, who are thus introduced :

They looked a manly generous generation; Beards, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and thick,

Their accents firm and loud in conversation,
Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick,
Shewed them prepared, on proper provocation,
To give the lie, pull noses, stab and kick ;
And for that very reason, it is said,

They were so very courteous and well-bred.

My dear, you might recover from your flurry,
In a nice airy lodging out of town,
At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey;
If every stanza brings us in a crown,
I think that I might venture to bespeak
A bedroom and front-parlour for next week.

Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think;
Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock;
Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink;
On Banstead Downs you 'd muster a new stock,
And I'd be sure to keep away from drink,
And always go to bed by twelve o'clock.
We'll travel down there in the morning stages;
Our verses shall go down to distant ages.
And here in town we 'll breakfast on hot rolls,
And you shall have a better shawl to wear;
These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ;
By Monday next I'll compass a new pair :
Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals,
And take away the things you hung to air;
Set out the tea-things, and bid Phoebe bring
The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing.
Near the valley of the giants was an abbey, con-
taining fifty friars, 'fat and good,' who keep for
a long time on good terms with their neighbours.
Being fond of music, the giants would sometimes

In a valley near Carlisle lived a race of giants; approach the sacred pile, attracted by the sweet and this place is finely described :

Huge mountains of immeasurable height
Encompassed all the level valley round
With mighty slabs of rock, that sloped upright,
An insurmountable and enormous mound.
The very river vanished out of sight,
Absorbed in secret channels under ground;
That vale was so sequestered and secluded,
All search for ages past it had eluded.

A rock was in the centre, like a cone,
Abruptly rising from a miry pool,
Where they beheld a pile of massy stone,
Which masons of the rude primeval school
Had reared by help of giant hands alone,
With rocky fragments unreduced by rule:
Irregular, like nature more than art,
Huge, rugged, and compact in every part.

A wild tumultuous torrent raged around,
Of fragments tumbling from the mountain's height;
The whistling clouds of dust, the deafening sound,
The hurried motion that amazed the sight,
The constant quaking of the solid ground,
Environed them with phantoms of affright;
Yet with heroic hearts they held right on,
Till the last point of their ascent was won.

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sounds that issued from it; and here occurs a beautiful piece of description:

Oft that wild untutored race would draw,
Led by the solemn sound and sacred light,
Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw,
To listen all the livelong summer night,
Till deep, serene, and reverential awe
Environed them with silent calm delight,
Contemplating the minster's midnight gleam,
Reflected from the clear and glassy stream.

But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed
O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue,
Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed
With thoughts and aspirations strange and new,
Till their brute souls with inward working bred
Dark hints that in the depths of instinct grew
Subjective-not from Locke's associations,
Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations.
Each was ashamed to mention to the others
One half of all the feelings that he felt,
Yet thus for each would venture: 'Listen, brothers,
It seems as if one heard Heaven's thunders melt
In music!'

Unfortunately, this happy state of things is broken up by the introduction of a ring of bells into the abbey, a kind of music to which the giants had an

insurmountable aversion :

The solemn mountains that surrounded
The silent valley where the convent lay,
With tintinnabular uproar were astounded
When the first peal burst forth at break of day:
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded,
They scarce knew what to think or what to say;
And-though large mountains commonly conceal
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel,
Yet-Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne
To huge Loblommon gave an intimation
Of this strange rumour, with an awful tone,
Thundering his deep surprise and indignation;
The lesser hills, in language of their own,
Discussed the topic by reverberation;
Discoursing with their echoes all day long,
Their only conversation was, 'ding-dong.'

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