Why should we yet our sail unfurl? Utawa's tide! this trembling moon 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. To write upon all, is an author's sole chance The material within of small consequence is; 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 Oh, say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Yes, weep! and however my foes may condemn, With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give, 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, 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, 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! Nature after a Storm. How calm, how beautiful, comes on There blow a thousand gentle airs, 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 : love: Alas-how light a cause may move Like ships that have gone down at sea, A word unkind or wrongly taken- And voices lose the tone that shed After the publication of his work, the poet set off 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 Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, This bleak world alone? The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine. My choir shall be the moonlight waves, I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, I'll read thy anger in the rack Of sunny brightness breaking through! ; There's nothing bright, above, below, There's nothing dark, below, above, 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, They were so very courteous and well-bred. My dear, you might recover from your flurry, Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think; 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 A rock was in the centre, like a cone, A wild tumultuous torrent raged around, sounds that issued from it; and here occurs a beautiful piece of description: Oft that wild untutored race would draw, But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed 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 |