mood to have their poetic mirror also? Byron represents an actual phase of the soul's life; not its whole nor its highest experience, but still a real and most interesting portion of its development. He is not the unnatural painter which many critics would fain make him. In many a youthful heart do his truest appeals find an immediate response. Even the misanthropy with which his writings are imbued is not all morbid and undesirable. How much is there of lofty promise in the very discontent he utters! How does it whisper of desires too vast for time, of aspirations which pleasure and fame cannot satisfy. How often does it reveal an infinite necessity for love, an eternal tendency to progress! Misanthrophy has its poetry as well as pleasure; and the eloquent complaints of Byron have brought home to countless hearts a deeper conviction of the absolute need of truth and self-respect than any logical argument. If a few shallow imitators are silly enough to turn down their collars and drink gin, there is another class who mentally exclaim as they read Byron-"What infinite longings are these! what sensibility to beauty! what capacities of suffering! how fatal is error to such a being! let me, of kindred clay, look earnestly for a lofty faith, a safe channel for passion, a serene haven for thought!" The poet's torch is not always a meteor, alluring only to betray, but a beacon-light warning the lover of genius from the rocks and quick-sands which made him desolate. Besides, enough confidence is not felt in the native sense and just sentiments of readers. Can we not yield our hearts to the thrilling address to Lake Leman without being pledged thereby to adopt the creed of Don Juan? Can we not accept Byron's tribute to the Venus and Dying Gladiator without approving his bacchanal orgies at Newstead? May we not enjoy the

freedom of the Corsair, without emulating the ex

hero" of one virtue and a thousand crimes"?

MOORE.

POETRY seems as capricious in her alliances as opinion. She is as frequently wedded to gladness as to gloom. When we recall the fortunes and character of her votaries, it seems impossible that an element so peculiar should co-exist with such opposite tendencies of mind and traits of feeling. Like the mysterious combinations of light, which yields a verdant gloom to the cypress, and a rosy hue to the cloud, with one lucent effluence producing innumerable tints, the spirit of poetry assimilates with every variety of human sentiment, from the deepest shadows of misanthropy to the freshest bloom of delight. She elevated the stern will of Dante into grandeur, and softened the passion of Laura's lover into grace. In some buoyant child of the south, she appears like a playful nymph, crowned with roses; and breathes over a northern harp like an autumn wind sighing through a forest of pines. She brooded with melancholy wildness. over the soul of Byron, and scattered only flowers in the path of Metastasio. Alternately she wears the complacent smile of an Epicurean and the cold frown of a stoic. Now she seems a blessing, and now a bane; inspires one with heroism, and enervates another with delight; sometimes reminds us of the ocean, waywardly heaving a hapless barque, and again wears the semblance of a peaceful stream, in whose clear waters the orbs of heaven seem to slumber. Thus poetry follows the universal law of con

trast, and is true to the phases of life. She not only reflects the different orders of character, but the changeful moods of each individual; appeals to every class of sympathies, and adapts herself to every peculiarity of experience. She has an echo for our glee, and an accompaniment for our sadness; she can exalt the reverie of the philosopher, and glorify the lover's dreams; kneel with the devout, and swell the mirth of the banquet; attune the solemn harmony of a Milton, and the melodious sweetness of a Moore.

With the prevailing thoughtfulness that belongs to British poetry, it is striking to contrast the brilliancy of Moore. He seems to bring the vivacious and kindly genius of his country, with an honest and cheerful pride, into the more stately ranks of the English minstrels. His sparkling conceits and sentimental luxury have a southern flavour. They breathe of pleasure. Even when pathetic their influence is the same, for grief is robbed of its poignancy and soothed into peace. The severity of thought, the strain of high excitement, the tumult of passion, are alike avoided. We are not carried to the misty heights of contemplation, nor along the formal paths of detail; but are left to saunter through balmy meadows or repose in delicious groves. If sometimes a painful idea is evolved, a musical rhyme or bright image at once harmonizes the picture. We are seldom permitted to realise the poem, so constantly is maintained the idea of the song. An impression such as the voluntary numbers of the troubadour convey, like the overflowing of a lightsome yet imaginative spirit, continually pervades us. No wrestling with the great mysteries of being, no studied attempts to reach the height of some "great argument," characterize the song of Moore, but a melodious dalliance with memory and hope, a gay or pensive flight above the toilsome and the actual into the free domain of romance.

With all these attractions, the poetry of Moore is in no small degree artificial. The highest, as well as the most touching song, is undoubtedly that which springs warmly from the poet's life and emotions. This is, without doubt, the case with many of the effusions of the bard of Erin; on the other hand, we frequently meet in his pages with gems brought from afar, beauties that obviously have been garnered, rather than naturally suggested. Lalla Rookh, for instance, is the result of the author's gleanings amid the traditions and natural history of the East. His treasures are used, indeed, with consummate skill, and no process but the meditative workings of a glowing mind could have blended them into pictures of such radiant beauty. Still, it is well to feel the distinction which obtains between the poetry of the artist and the poetry of the man. It argues no ordinary facility and creativeness, for a minstrel to deliberately plan a work, as an architect does a temple; and then, having collected the materials of the fabric, proceed to rear a harmonious and delightful structure. But there is a process in the art more divine than this. It is that of the bard who obeys, like a prophet, the call of inspiration, utters chiefly what his own heart pleads to express, and throws into his poem the sincere teachings of his inmost life. In such poetry there is a spell of no transient power. It comes home to our highest experience. It is eminently suggestive. Like the echo of the mountains, it is full of lofty intimations. To this species of poetry Moore has but slightly contributed. His general tone is comparatively superficial. Fancy is his great characteristic. This is the quality which gives such a sparkling grace to his verse. Like the corruscations of frost-work and the phosphorescence of the sea, his fanciful charms play around and fascinate us; they give a zest to the passing hour, and kindle bright illusions in the monotonous cir

cuit of existence; but they seldom beam with the serene and enduring light of the stars. Moore is too much the creature of social and fashionable life to attain the highest range of Parnassus. He is necessarily, to some degree, conventional. His associations rarely transcend the present and prevailing in thought. In the Vale of Cashmere he does not forget the "mirror," and amid the light of other days," his memory is busy with the banquet hall." Moore especially deserves the title of accomplished. He is no rough ploughman, with nothing but the hills and firmament, a rustic charmer or a crushed daisy, to awaken his muse; he is no discontented peer, seeking in foreign adventure freedom from social shackles; but a cordial gentleman, ever ready with his pleasant repartee and his graceful song. He appears to equal advantage at the literary dinner and in the fashionable drawing-room; as a guide through the delicious labyrinths of oriental romance, and a companion at the festive board; as a poet, a friend, and a man of the world. He is one of those men who seem born to ornament as well as to delight; to give a new grace to pleasure and an imaginative glow to social life. There is room for constant discrimination in estimating Moore. He has written a mass of verses which are of temporary interest, and of so little merit that we cannot choose but wonder that he should annex them to his more finished productions. "Lalla Rookh" and the "Loves of the Angels" are the best of his long compositions, and of these the beautiful episode of "Paradise and the Peri" bears the most brilliant traces of his genius. His fame, however, will doubtless rest eventually on the "Melodies." It is to be regretted that so many evidences of hasty and casual impressions, at once immature and injudicious, should appear among the gems of such a minstrel. His notices of this country, for instance, founded on the most mea