*

MOORE. Mr. Moore was a native of Dublin, born on the 28th of May 1779. He early began to rhyme, and a sonnet to his schoolmaster, Mr. Samuel Whyte, written in his fourteenth year, was published in a Dublin magazine, to which he contributed other pieces. The parents of our poet were Roman Catholics, a body then proscribed and depressed by penal enactments, and they seem to have been of the number who, to use his own words, hailed the first dazzling outbreak of the French Revolution as a signal to the slave, wherever suffering, that the day of his deliverance was near at hand.' The poet states that in 1792 he was taken by his father to one of the dinners given in honour of that great event, and sat upon the knee of the chairman while the following toast was enthusiastically sent round: May the breezes from France fan our Irish Oak into verdure.' Parliament having, in 1793, opened the university to Catholics, young Moore was sent to college, and distinguished himself by his classical acquirements. In 1799, he proceeded to London to study law in the Middle Temple, and publish by subcription a translation of Anacreon. The latter appeared in the following year, dedicated to the Prince of Wales. At a subsequent period Mr. Moore was among the keenest satirists of this prince, for which he has been accused of ingratitude; but he states himself that the whole amount of his obligations to his royal highness was the honour of dining twice at Carlton House, and being admitted to a great fete given by the prince in 1811 on his being made regent. In 1801, Moore ventured on a volume of original verse, put forth under the assumed name of Thomas Little'-an allusion to his diminutive stature. In these pieces the warmth of the young poet's feelings and imagination led him to trespass on delicacy and decorum. He had the good sense to be ashamed of these amatory juvenilia, and genius enough to redeem the fault. His offence did not stand in the way of his preferment. In 1803 Mr. Moore obtained an official situation at Bermuda, the duties of which were discharged by a deputy; and this subordinate proving unfaithful, the poet suffered pecuniary losses and great embarrassment. Its first effect however, was two volumes of poetry, a series of Odes and Epistles,' published in 1806, and written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe, while the author visited Bermuda. The descriptive sketches in this work are remarkable for their fidelity, no less than their poetical beauty. The style of Moore was now formed, and in all his writings there was nothing finer than the opening epistle to Lord Strangford, written on board ship by moonlight:

*Mr. Whyte was also the teacher of Sheridan, and it is curious to learn that. after about a year's trial, Sherry was pronounced, both by tutor and parent, to be an incorrigible dunce! • At the time.' says Mr. Moore. when I first began to attend his school, Mr. Whyte still continued. to the no small alarm of inany parents, to encourage a taste for acting among his pupils. In this line I was long his favourite show-scholar; and among the play-bills introduced in his volume, to illustrate the occasions of his own prologues and epilogues, there is one of a play got up in the year 1790, at Lady Borrowes's private theatre in Dublin, where, among the items of the evening's entertainment, is "An Epilogue, A Squeeze to St. Paul's, Master Moore.'''

A Moonlight Scene at Sea.

Sweet moon! if, like Crotona's sage,
By any spell my hand could dare
To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thougats, my wishes
there;

How many a friend, whose careless eye
Now wanders o'er that starry sky,
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet
The recolection kind and sweet,
The reveries of fond regret,
The promise never to forget,

And all my heart and soul would send
To many a dear-loved, distant friend. . . .
Even now, delusive hope will steal
Amid the dark regrets I feel,
Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep,

And lights them with consoling gleam,
And smiles them into tranquil sleep.
Oh! such a blessed night as this

I often think, if friends were near,
How should we feel, and gaze with bliss
Upon the moon-bright scenery here!
The sea is like a silvery lake,

And o'er its calm the vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared to wake

The slumber of the silent tides!
The only envious cloud that lowers,
Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,
Where dimly 'mid the dusk he towers,

And, scowling at this heaven of light,
Exults to see the infant storm

Cling darkly round his giant form!

The following was also produced during the voyage:
Canadian Boat Song.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time;
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn,
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast;
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

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 poct 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 Postbag,' '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 composition 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.

Literary Advertisement.

...

Wanted-Authors of all work to job for the season,
No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks, who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason,
Can manage, like [Southey], to do without either.
If in jail. all the better for out-of-door topics;
Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
And sail round the world, at their ease, in the Fleet.

For a dramatist, too, the most useful of schools

He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,

And of place he, at least, must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman come to an age

To have good Reminiscences' (threescore or higher),
Will meet with encouragement-so much per page,
And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.
No matter with what their remembrance is stocked,
So they'll only remember the quantum desired;
Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes oct.,

Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.
They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeu d'esprits,
Like Didbin, may tell of each fanciful frolic;
Or kindly inform us, like Madam Genlis,

That ginger-beer cakes always give them the colic.
Funds, Physic, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,
All excellent subjects for turning a penny;
To write upon all, is an author's sole chance
For attaining at last the least knowledge of any.
Nine times ont 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 an 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

*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 hey contain.']

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 following example:

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!

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 have damped the spirit and extinguished the 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:

Oh, what a pure and sacred thing

Is Beauty, curtained from the sight Of the gross world,'illumining

Beauty.

One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye-
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity.
A soul, too, more than half divine,

Where through some shades of earthly
feeling,

Religion's softened glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage
stealing,

Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.

Or this picture of nature after a summer storm, closing with a rich voluptuous simile:

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-