The poetical works of Thomas Moore, with life

emotions. These faults of the poem sprung not more from the innate tendency than from the environment of the bard. Rookh" was an inspiration of the Row. A brilliant article was what was wanted. Plainness, simplicity, and repose were at a discount. Not three thousand guineas, but a "this will never do” was the reward of bards so far forgetful of their own interest as trouble themselves with the homely. What now are deemed the faults of Lalla Rookh, were, on its publication, the essentials of its success. Jeffrey hailed it as "the finest Orientalism we have had yet;" and from every possible source, tributes to the genius of the bard are poured forth. Moore's poetical fame had now reached its zenith; but sadly and sternly he is soon to learn the secret of vicissitude. The death of his beloved Barbara is the first shadow that falls upon what is henceforth to be a darkly chequered domestic existence. The sharp grief which, with his daughter's loss, pierced his soul was yet unassuaged, when intelligence arrives that his deputy in Bermuda has been guilty of embezzlement, and Moore is responsible for a loss of L.6000. In this emergency, Rogers and Jeffrey have each L.500 at his service, Lord Lansdowne will become his security, Lord John Russell offers to mortgage the Life of his patriotic ancestor, and the Longmans are willing to advance any sum necessary. Moore resolves to reject the kindness of friends, and rely exclusively on his own resources. At first matters wore a rather threatening aspect; an attachment is issued against his person, and the poet is compelled to retreat to Paris. Ultimately, however, the affair was compromised, and the L.6000 reduced to L.740. "Rhymes on the Road," "The Epicurean," a prose story, and "The Loves of the Angels," were the product of his Parisian exile. "The Loves of the Angels," in its original form, was not quite a judicious production. A wag of a Dublin friend assured the poet, that while reading the work he could not help figuring to himself Tom, Jerry, and Logic on a lark from the sky. The Longmans express a fear that the angels may prove a drag upon the popularity of the poem. Tom's genuine practical talent comes to the rescue of his publishers. With D'Herbelot's assistance, the angels are transformed into Turks, and the objectionable connection with the Scriptures got rid of.

Allusion has already been made to Moore's song-writing; a more specific reference to that special department of poetic effort in which he excelled is now necessary. In the last days of his college curriculum, the poet's attention had been attracted tc Bunting's collection of Irish Melodies. In 1807 he entered into an engagement with Mr Power to produce a work founded on chem, in which he was to adapt the airs and furnish the words, while Sir J. Stevenson was to provide the accompaniments. This work engaged him at intervals throughout more than a quarter of a century, and upon it his fame will permanently rest. The songs of Moore have not the passion or the power of the lyrics of Burns. But Burns aside,-in pathos, tenderness, play of wit, brilliancy of fancy, and rich adornment, the bard of Erin must ever claim a high, if not the highest, place among our song writers It may, probably it must, be acknowledged that there is too great uniformity in the efforts of his muse, and that, more frequently

than was meet, the poet has been contented to hang the garland of his fancy over threadbare conventionalities. But to demand, as certain critics, in depreciating Moore, have demanded, from the lyrist some wondrously complex manifestation of passion, is tc mistake the true functions of the song-writer. Moore is not the poet of the people in any wide sense of that word. He has not specially voiced the aspirations of the plough, the loom, or the forge. He has no song of which it can be said, as Carlyle has said of Burns' best known lyric, it might be sung by the throat of the whirlwind. Yet, though in some respects Moore wants robustness, it is a gross exaggeration of his one weakness to describe him as a mere carpet poet. As the critic listens to "The Last Rose of Summer," Rich and rare were the gems she wore," "Go where glory waits thee," sneers are transformed into admiration. Such soul-stirring, soul-melting effusions fully justify the boast of the bard:

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 love, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love, and the light note of gladness,
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy loveliest thrill;
But, so oft thou hast echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still!" In 1823 Moore published his "Fables of the Holy Alliance." Almost immediately after the appearance of this work, which certain timid friends feared might subject him to a government prosecution, he accompanied Lord Lansdowne on a tour through Ireland. On his return from the Green Isle, he published "Captain Rock," a historical summary of the misgovernment of his native country, and an attack upon the Irish Church. This work, then popular even beyond its merits, now adds nothing to his fame. In the October of 1825, the Life of Sheridan," on which he had long been occupied, appeared. This life is obviously the fruit of solid study; facts are carefully elucidated, and the compact narrative presents the reader with all the world cares to know of Sheridan. Where it fails, it is not from any lack of industry, but from the lack of pictorial power. Moore could do admirable justice to a given range of sentiments, but he was destitute of the capacity (so invaluable in a biographer) which realises a vivid image of character. The "Life of Lord Byron" was Moore's next prose effort. Though not perhaps containing any single passages of equal power to some that may be found in his Sheridan," the work exhibits a greater mastery of the craft of the biographer. Byron was followed by "The Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald," a biography more strongly impregnated with the odour of Irish patriotism than was altogether to the taste of Holland House. Whig friends began to suspect that the guest of Belgravia was making too near an approach to the "Croppy Boy." In his life of Sheridan, he had the temerity to ventilate certain opinions not quite in keeping with the traditionary rever. ence for Fox; and in the biography of the Irish patriot he went even still greater lengths in the same independent path. Moore had through life been a waiter upon providence, he is always expecting that something will be done for him. So long the dupe

of to-morrow, he has now begun to despair. Disappointment has somewhat soured his spirit, and though he talks nothing but the truth of his patrons when chafing under supposed neglect, it is probable that, but for that imagined want of consideration, the truth would not have been so frankly told. In cherishing this petulant spirit, it soon became manifest that Moore was mistaken. Old friends had not forgotten him, as the following epistle from Lord John Russell, dated 7th May 1835, will prove :

My dear Moore,--I have been too busy, since I last saw you, to be able to write on any but public concerns. Having, however, a little time to spare to-day, I wish to consult you on your own private affairs. I am now in a better position than I formerly was for serving my friends; still, there are very few opportunities of finding any situation that will suit a gentleman who does not belong to a profession. It has occurred to me that a pension for one or both of your sons might be a source of comfort to you in days of sickness or lassitude. But perhaps, on the contrary, the offer might be displeasing to you, and I do not like to speak to Melbourne about it without consulting you. If you have any. thing else to suggest which is more agreeable to your wishes, pray tell me freely as an old friend, and I will answer you as a friend, and not as a minister."

This kindly epistle was received by Moore with feelings of "surprise, joy, and thankfulness." In his reply, the poet intimates that he had begun to suspect Swift was right when he said "he never knew a ministry do anything for those whom they had made the companions of their pleasures." Lord John's letter, however, had shown him his mistake. After mentioning that his History of Ireland had been a very poor job, realising only L.750, from two years and a half of employment, Moore left matters entirely in the hands of Lord John Russell. The result was, that on the 24th August it was notified in the public prints that, in consideration of eminent literary services, Thomas Moore, Esq., had received a pension of L.300. This pension brought joy to the heart of Bessy, who thus writes from their cottage in Sloperton, on the news being first broken to her," My dearest Tom, can it really be true that you have a pension of L.300 a-year; Mr, two Misses, and young Longman were here to-day, and tell me that they have seen it in two newspapers. If the good news be true, I shall then indulge in butter to potatoes. Mind you do not tell this piece of gluttony to any one." Three years after this, the poet again visits Ireland. His great popularity has lost none of its freshness. When he got on board the Dublin packet, at their united request he has to kiss all the ladies on board, not excepting an elderly female, who had been left out of the calculation, and gallantly came to his cabin to repair the omission. When he set foot on Irish soil, he was received with the most enthusiastic welcome. His progresses through the country were everywhere ovations. He is called out at the Dublin theatre; "Come, shew your Irish face, Tom," the galleries shout in chorus. At Bannow he is received by horsemen with banners, triumphal arches are erected in honour of the poet. The contagious enthusiasm has even penetrated the serene regions of Quakerdom. Some very beautiful ladies of the Society Friends "should like to have twe

lines of thine with thy name to them." If the breath of popular applause could confer happiness, then had Moore reached the summit of earthly felicity. The post-horns of Europe are filled with his fame, peasant and peer are alike forward to do homage to his genius; but happiness is not in all this. He has had his reward. What he aimed to accomplish he has accomplished. But something is yet wanting. Fashionable life at length begins to pall, and the poet begins to babble of his quiet garden and study, where, in the mute society of his own thoughts and books, he is neither offended nor wearied. Alas! Tom, it is now too late. At sixty, a man does not easily revolutionise his tastes or his habits. The psalmist has with equal truth and poetry described human life as "like as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night." But brief as is man's allotted span,-ere he goes hence, he has often lived long enough to have outlived the capacity for enjoyment. "The butterfly-wing is faded before the summer is over, and the humming-bee droops in the heart of the roses." was it with Moore.

We noted the first shadow that fell upon his household in the death of his beloved Barbara. Since that day, once, twice, thrice has the insatiate archer plunged that household in gloom; and now, in 1846, we find this sad entry in his diary: "The last of our five children is gone, and we are left desolate and alone. Not a single relative have I now left in the world." The blow sent him weeping to the earth. Health was affected, spirits crushed, and mind impaired. In that last sad year of Southey's existence, we read of how the poor scholar, whose mind had become an utter blank, would still walk round his library, gaze intently on his darling books, take them down mechanically, affect to read them, and put them back again unread. The last days of Moore are in a certain sense even still more melancholy. "His memory was perpetually at fault, and nothing seemed to rest upon his mind. He made engagements to dinners and parties, but usually forgot the half of them. When he did appear, his gay flow of spirits, happy application of humorous stories, and constant and congenial ease, were all wanting. The brilliant hues of his varied conversation had failed, and the strong powers of his intellect had manifestly sunk. There was something peculiarly sad in the change. It is not unusual to observe the faculties grow weaker with age; and in the rotirement of a man's own home, there may be no unpleasing melancholy" in the task of watching such a decline; but when, in the midst of the gay and convivial, the wit appeared without his gaiety, and the guest without his conviviality-when the fine fancy appeared not so much sobered as saddened, it was a cheerless sight.

"The harp that once in Tara s halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls.
As if that soul was filed."

The great darkness which had settled on his spirit continued to deepen, and on the 25th February 1852 he died. The churchyard of Bromham, a village of Wiltshire, is the last resting-place of the bard.

CONTENTS.

LALLA ROOKH,

The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,

Paradise and the Peri,

The Fire-Worshippers,

The Light of the Haram,

Notes,

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS :-

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