"Let it never, too, be forgotten, in estimating this part of his character, that had he been less consistent and disinterested in his public conduct, he might have commanded the means of being independent and respectable in private. He might have died a rich apostate, instead of closing a life of patriotism in beggary. He might (to use a fine expression of his own) have 'hid his head in a coronet,' instead of earning for it but the barren wreath of public gratitude. While, therefore, we admire the great sacrifice that he made, let us be tolerant to the errors and imprudences which it entailed upon him; and, recollecting how vain it is to look for anything unalloyed in this world, rest satisfied with the martyr, without requiring also, the saint."

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

"Principibus placuisse viris!"-HORACE. Yes, grief will have way-but the fast-falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those, Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career, And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close. Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed

By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave;
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn.

How proud they can press to the fun'ral array
Of one whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow;
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,

Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow,

And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam,
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast.

No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine;

No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,

Though this would make Europe's whole opulence mine,

Would I suffer what even in the heart that thou hast, All mean as it is, must have consciously burn'd, When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,

And which found all his want at an end, was return'd.

"Was this then the fate?" future ages will say,

When some names shall live but in history's curse, When the truth will be heard, and these lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as worse,

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, The pride of the palace, the bow'r and the hall, The orator-dramatist-minstrel-who ran

Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all.

"Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art, From the finest and best of all other men's pow'rs: Who ruled like a wizard the world of the heart,

And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its show'rs.

"Whose humour, as gay as the firefly's light,

Play'd round ev'ry subject, and shone as it play'd,
Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

"Whose eloquence, bright'ning whatever it tried, Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, Was rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide,

As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave?"

Yes, such was the man, and so wretched his fate;
And thus sooner or later shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the great,
And expect 't will return to refresh them at eve.

In the woods of the north there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk, till his very last sigh;
O genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die.

VISIT TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.

In the latter part of 1825, Moore paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford. Mr. Lockhart, in the Life of Scott, states, that the "Magician of the North" never received a more welcome announcement than when Moore sent him intimation of his approaching visit, an expedition which had long been meditated. Scott's letter to Moore, acknowledging the receipt of the letter from the latter promising to come, is written in the warmest tone of welcome. It begins thus-" My dear Sir-damn 'Sir'-my dear Moore," and contains numerous expressions of pleasure at the prospect of the visit of his brother bard. Moore remained several days at Abbotsford, and as there was no company with Scott at the time, the poets had an opportunity of indulging in a great deal of quiet conversation. Moore kept a diary of the visit, from which he gave permission to Mr. Lockhart to make extracts. Moore's estimate of Scott was very high. "I parted from Scott (he says) with the feeling that all the world might admire him in his works, but that those only could love him as he deserved who had seen him at Abbotsford." The following extracts from

Mr. Lockhart's Life of his illustrious relative, tend to show what kindred spirits met when Moore and Scott were together.

"Mr. Moore arrived accordingly—and he remained several days. Though not, I believe, a regular journalizer, he kept a brief diary during his Scotch tour, and he has kindly allowed me the use of it. He fortunately found Sir Walter in an interval of repose, no one with him at Abbotsford but Lady and Miss Scott-and no company at dinner except the Fergusons and Laidlaw. The two poets had thus the opportunity of a great deal of conversation; and from the hour they met, they seemed to have treated each other with a full confidence, the record of which, however touchingly honorable to both, could hardly be made public in extenso while one of them survives. The first day they were alone after dinner, and the talk turned chiefly on the recent works of Byron-from which Scott passed unaffectedly to his own literary history. Mr. Moore listened with great interest to details, now no longer new, about the early days of ballad-hunting, Matt Lewis, the Minstrelsy, and the Poems; and 'at last,' says he, 'to my no small surprise, as well as pleasure, he mentioned the Novels, without any reserve, as his own. He gave me an account of the original progress of those extraordinary works, the hints supplied for them, the conjectures and mystifications to which they had given rise, etc., etc.,' and concluded with saying, they have been a inine of wealth to me-but I find I fail in them now-I can no longer make them as good as at first.' The frankness was met as it should have been by the brother poet; and when he entered Scott's room

next morning, "he laid his hand," says Moore, "with a sort of cordial earnestness on my breast, and said-Now, my dear Moore, we are friends for life."" They sallied out for a walk through the plantations, and among other things, the commonness of poetic talent in these days was alluded to. "Hardly a magazine is now published," said Moore, "that does not contain verses, which some thirty years ago would have made a reputation." Scott turned with his look of shrewd humour, as if chuckling over his own success, and said, "Ecod, we were in luck to come before these fellows," but he added, playfully flourishing his stick as he spoke, "we have, like Bobadil, taught them to beat us with our own weapons." "In complete novelty," says Moore, "he seemed to think lay the only chance for a man ambitious of high literary reputation in these days."

Scott was really fond of Moore. With his singing he was particularly struck. "Tom Moore (he said) is the most exquisite warbler I ever heard." In his Diary, 22nd November, 1825, he thus speaks of him:

“November 22.-Moore-I saw Moore (for the first time, I may say) this season. We had indeed met in public twenty years ago. There is a manly frankness, with perfect ease and good breeding, about him which is delightful. Not the least touch of the poet or the pedant. A little-very little man. Less, I think, than Lewis, and somewhat like him in person; God knows, not in conversation, for Matt, though a clever fellow, was a bore of the first description. Moreover, he looked always like a school-boy. Now Moore has none of this

H