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gre observation, are scarcely worthy of a liberal mind; and had the poet conscientiously examined the causes of the revolutionary failure of the Neapolitans, he would not have had the heart to write of a people so much more sinned against than sinning," so cruel an anathema as, "Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are." The metaphors of this poet admirably illustrate his power of fancy, indicated in the felicitous comparison of natural facts to moral qualities. In one of his dinner speeches, complimenting his hearers on their superiority to party malevolence, he says their "noble natures, in the worst of times, would come out of the conflict of public opinion, like pebbles out of the ocean, more smooth and more polished by the very agitation in which they had been revolving." And on the same occasion, speaking of Byron's disposition "to wander only among the ruins of the heart," he says that "like the chestnut tree that grows best in volcanic soils, he luxuriates most where the conflagration of passion has left its mark." Joyful moments in the midst of misery he compares to

-"those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips,

Sweetening the very edge of doom."

Among numerous similar examples are the following:

"In every glance there broke, without control,
The flashes of a bright but troubled soul,

Where sensibility still wildly played,

Like lightning round the ruins it had made.”

"Oh, colder than the wind that freezes
Founts, that but now in sunshine played,

Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom when betrayed."

"to see

Those virtuous eyes forever turned on me
And in their light re-chastened silently,

Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon.”

Music is a great element of Moore's poetry.
How few
have succeeded so well in softening the Teutonic jar of
our language, and giving a flow to the verse and a ca-
dence to the rhythm, like the liquid tongues of the south!
And what an ineffable charm has the melody given to his
song! He compares his verses to "flies preserved in
amber." So beguiling is the greater portion of the mu-
sic that we can scarcely give a calm examination to the
poems with which it is indissolubly associated. In this re-
spect Moore enjoys a signal advantage. There is an anec-
dote of an ancient dame who refused to sanction the publi-
cation of her deceased partner's sermons, "because they
couldn't print the tone with them." In poetry, how much
depends upon the reader's tone, both of voice and of mind!
How many noble pieces of verse slumber in obscurity for
want of an oral interpreter! Elocutionary skill has re-
vealed beauties in poetry of which even the author never
dreamed. The sweetest of Moore's effusions are allied
to delightful music. Sense and soul are simultaneously
addressed, and perhaps no modern bard has been more
widely felt as well as acknowledged to be a poet.
the gay saloon, on the lonely sea, from the lips of the
lady and the peasant, the student and the sailor, the lover
and the hero, how often have breathed such airs as
The
Meeting of the Waters,"" Love's Young Dream," "Come
rest in this bosom," "Oft in the Stilly Night." "Come,
ye
Disconsolate," "Sound the Loud Timbrel," "Mary's
Tears," and others as familiar in bower and hall.

sands have responded to the sentiment of Byron :

"Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'T is to thee that I would drink.

In

Thou

"In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be-Peace to thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!"

There is certainly something real and grateful in such fame, and it is not surprising that Moore declares he has no idea of poetry, disconnected with music.

The national associations connected with the poetry of Moore greatly enhance its attractions. As the bard of a depressed but noble people, whose sufferings are only equalled by their heartiness and hardihoood, he claims universal sympathy. We cannot but remember that his strains breathe of a land so lovely and so impoverished that it has been aptly called Paradise Lost. In those touching melodies which seem to embalm the fresh soul of Erin in the days of her strength, what fervent appeals are there to every loyal and benevolent heart! Indeed the very fact of gathering from the cotter's fireside, from moor and valley and sequestered glen, the wild and melting notes of old Irish song, and wedding them to the language of modern refinement, strikes us as one of the most romantic enterprises of modern poetry. If an Italian painting, a Moorish fountain and an Egyptian pyramid affect us, as the surviving and beautiful memorials of a nation's better day, how much more should we recognize the eloquent and simple music of a distant era, in which the glow of love, patriotism and grief is yet warm and thrilling! Not less in his personal traits than his muse does Moore illustrate his country; his patriotism, convivial talents and kindly feelings are equally characteristic. As the popular bard of Ireland, his position is singularly desirable. He is not lost in a crowd of versifiers and associated with a local school, but strikes the imagination as the poetical representative of a great and unfortunate nation. With the groans that echo from her afflicted

shores his notes of fancy and feeling mingle, to remind us of the high and warm traits of the Irish heart, and of the flowers of genius still blooming amid the gloom of her distress. Well may he sing

"Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee!

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song!"

ROGERS.

SUCH a quiet attribute as taste is not very efficient at a period like the present. And yet it is one of those qualities which go far toward perpetuating a poem as well as a statue or painting. We are now so accustomed to look for the rare and striking in literature, that the very principle which harmonizes and stamps with enduring beauty the effusions of mind, is scarcely appreciated. It is chiefly to the past that we must look for poetic taste. Recent bards have but seldom done justice to the form and manner of their writings. There is something, however, in a refined style and tasteful execution not unworthy the highest genius. It is due at least to that magic vehicle of ideas which we call language, that it should be wrought and polished into a shape fitted to enshrine the glowing image and the lofty thought. Many a work, the sentiment of which is without significance in this busy age, continues to delight from its artistical excellence, and much of the literature of the day, that bears the impress of genius, is destined to speedy oblivion, from its unfinished and ill-constructed diction. There is no little scope for sweet fancy and delicate feeling in the use of language. Not in his ideas and figures alone. is the poet manifest. Indeed, it is as rare to find a good artist in the sphere of words and sentences as in that of marble and colours. Some ingenious philosophers have pointed out analogies between styles of writing and char