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THOMAS MOORE,
etc
CRISSY & MARKLEY, GOLDSMITH'S HALL,
LIBRARY STREET.
AND CHARLES DESILVER, No. 253 MARKET STREET.
THE
WOBSIBfl
OF
THOMAS MOORE,
INCLUDING HIS
, etc.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOL.UJIE
CRISSY & MARKLEY, GOLDSMITH'S HALL,
LIBRARY STREET.
AND CHARLES DESILVER, No. 253 MARKET STREET.
CONTENTS.
Pa«c.
LALLA IloOKII.
The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan .
Paradise and the Peri . . .
The Fire-worshippers . .* .
The Light of the Ilaram
Notes ... ...
EPISTLES, ODES, and OTHER POEMS.
Dedication . .
Preface
EPISTLE I. To Lord Viscount Strangford 100
Stanzas 101
The Tell-tale Lyre . . . . . ib.
To the Flying Fish . .102
EPISTLE II. To Miss M— e . . . i&.
ToCara .... 103
To ditto 104
To the Invisible Girl .... ib.
Peace and Glory ib.
To , 1801 105
Song . ib.
The Lake of the Dismal Swamp . . ib. EPISTLE III. To the Marchioness Dowager
of D 11 106
The Genius of Harmony . . . 107
EPISTLE IV. To G. Morgan, Esquire . 108
TIT? Ring 109
To , on seeing her with a white
veil and a rich girdle The Resemblance To
From the Greek of Meleager .
Lines, written in a storm at sea . -
Odes to Nea ....
I pray you let us roam no more .
You read it in my languid eyes
A Dream of Antiquity
Well — peace to thy heart .'
If I were yonder wave
On seeing an infant in Nea's arms .
The Snow Spirit ....
I stole along the flowery bank
On the loss of a letter intended for Nea
1 found her not ....
A Kiss a V Antique ....
There's not a look, a word of thine
EPISTLE V. To Joseph Atkinson. Esq
Love and Reason ....
Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear
Aspasia .... .
The Grecian Girl's Dream .
The Senses 120
The Steersman's Song . . . H>.
ToCloe . 121
To the Fire-fly it>.
The Vase ib.
The Wreath and the Chain . . . ib.
lagn. The timid girl now hung her head . . 121
To 122
EPISTLE VI. To Lord Viscount Forbes ib. Song ... ... 124
Lying • ib.
Anacreontic ... . . 16.
To 's Picture ... ib.
Fragment of a Mythological Hymn . 125 To the Duke of Montpensier . ib.
Aristippus to his Lamp . ib.
To Mrs. B— 1— d, written in her Album . 127 EPISTLE VII. To T. Hume, Esq. . A. The Snake . . .129
Lines written on leaving Philadelphia ib.
The fall of Hebe t&.
To ... .131
Anacreontic .... t&.
To Mrs.
-, on some calumnies against
her character
Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi, at the tomb of
her mother
Rings and Seals .... To Miss Susan B-ckf— d . Lines written at the Cohos falls Chloris and Fanny . . . .
To Miss
To , on asking me to address a
poem to her ..... Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods . To Mrs. Henry T-ghe .... Impromptu on leaving some friends . EPISTLE VIII. To the lit. Hon. W R.
Spencer ... .
A Warning
To
From the High Priest of Apollo, to a Virgin
of Delphi . . .
Woman
Ballad Stan/as . ... To
A Vision of Philosophy
To
Dreams .
To Mrs.
A Canadian boat-song ....
EPISTLE IX. To the Lady Charlotte R-wd-n Impromptu, after a visit to Mrs. , of
Montreal ... .
Lines written on passing Deadman's Island To the Boston frigate .... To La<iy H , on an old ring, found at
Tunbridge-wells
To
Extract from the Devil among the Scholars Fragments of a Journal .... To a Friend
132
ib
ib. 133
t&. 134
ib.
ib.
ib. 135 136
ib. 137 ib.
138 139
ib.
ib. MO 11-2
ib. 143
it
ib.
140 ib.
147
*. 150
CONTENTS.
Fanny, ray lore, we ne'er were sages . .
Song
11 the Greek . On a beautiful East-Indian
At night . •
INTERCEPTED LETTERS ; or, THE TWO- PEN NY POST-BAG Dedication, Prefaces, etc. Appendix . THE fODGB FAMILY IN PARIS.
Preface, etc
Notes
TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. Preface, etc.
A 251
154
164
183
RHYMES ON THE ROAD, etc.
Nou»
FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.
The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance
The Looking-glasses ....
The Fly and the Bullock .
Church and State
The Little Grand Lama . .
The Extinguishers
CORRUPTION (an epistle,) Preface, etc .
IN TOLERANCE (a poem) ....
Appendix • •
THE SCEPTIC, Preface, etc. . ODES OF ANACRF.oN.
Index showing the number of each Ode in Barnes' and other editions An Ode by the Translator Remarks on Anacreon 1. 1 saw the smiling bard of pleasure II. Give me the harp of epic song
III. Listen to the Muse's Lyre
I V. Vulcan ! hear your glorious task . V. Grave me a cup with brilliant grace
VI. As late I sought the spangled bowers VII. The women tell me every day . VIII. I rare not for the idle state . IX. I pray thee by the gods above . X . Till me how to punish thee . XI. Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee . XII. They. tell how Atys, wild with love
XIII. I will, I will ; the conflict 's past
XIV. Count me on the summer trees XV. TV II me why, my sweetest dove
XVI. Thou, whose soft and rosy hues . XVII. And now, with all thy pencil's truth XVIII. Now the star of Jay is high XIX. Here recline you, gentle maid XX. One day the Muses twined the hands
; Olwrvc when mother Earth is dry XXII The Phrygian rock that braves the
-•"'. i .... XXIII I often wish this languid lyre . XXIV. T« :ill that breathe the airs of heaven XXV. ( )nce in each revolving year XXVI. Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms XXVII. \\ '•• rr :<! the flying courser's name XXVIII AR in the Lemnian caves of fire
135 201 209
XXIX. Yes — loving is a painful thrill . XXX. 'T was in an airy dream of night . XXXI. Arm'd with a hyacinthine rod . \XXII. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves XXXIIL 'T was noon of night when round the
pole
XXXIV. Oh thou of all creation bles*'d XXXV. Cupid once upon a bed XXXVI. If hoarded gold possess'd a power
XXXVII. 'T was night, and many a circling bowl i
XXXVIII. Let us drain the nectar'd bowl XXXIX. How I love the festive boy . • 255
XL. I know that Heaven ordains me here rb. XLI. When Spring begems the dewy scene XLI I. Yes, be the glorious revel mine XLIII. While our rosy fillets shed . XLIV. Buds of roses, virgin flowers . XLV. Within this goblet, rich and deep . XLVL See, the young, the rosy spring XLV1I. 'T is true, my fading years decline XLVIII. When my thirsty soul I steep
838
833 ft.
•2:;? ft,
as ft.
ft. a,.
239
ib. 240
ib.
ib.
il,. 241
ib.
243 244 , 245 246 ft. Ml
ft,
ft, MS
ft. ib. 250
ib.
ih.
2o3
ib.
256 ib ib
257 ib ft.
253
,\ i , > i i i . rr *•»»• »"j «••'-• — j -~
XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy to.
ib. 259
L. When I drink, I feel, I feel LI. Fly not thus my brow of snow LII. Away, away, you men of rules LIU- When I behold the festive train LIV. Methinks the pictured bull we see . 260 LV. While we invoke the wreathed spring ib LVI. He who instructs the youthful crew ' LVII. And whose immortal hand could shed 262 LVIII. When gold, as fleet as Zephyr's pinion io LIX. Sabled by the solar beam LX. Awake to life, my dulcet shell . . 264 LXI. Golden hues of youth are fled LXII. Fill me, boy, as deep a draught LXIII. To Love, the soft and blooming child ib LX1V. Haste thee, nymph, whose winged
spear *•
LXV. Like some wanton filly sporting . ih. LXVI. To thee, the queen of nymphs divine 2f LXVII. Gentle youth! whose looks assume . ib LXVIII. Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn . * LXIX. Now Neptune's sullen month appear*
LXX. They wove the lotus band, to decx . 267
LXXI. A broken cake, with honey swe-n LXXII. With twenty chords my lyre is hurg LXXI II. Fare thee well, perfidious maid LXX1V. I bloom'd awhile, a happy flower . LXXV. Monarch Love ! resistless boy . LXX VI. Spirit of Love, whose tresses shine LXX VI I. Hither, gentle muse of mine LXX VIII. Would that I were a tuneful lyre LXXIX. When Cupid sees my beard of snow
FRAGMENTS
Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray Let me resign a wretched breath I know thou lovest a brimming measure . I fear that love disturbs my rest . From dread Leucadia's frowning steep . Mix me, child, a cup divine
EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM ANTIPATER
SIDONII-S.
Around the tomb, oh bard divine! Here sleeps Anacreon. in this ivied shade
ib. ib. ib ib ih 2
268 ib ib
ib ib ib ib ib ib
269 ih
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r i CONTENTS. |
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r Oh stranger! if Anacreon's shell At length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight LITTLE'S POEMS. Preface .... Dedication ... . • |
2C9 270 271 272 iTi |
Page. The Shield . . . 282 To Mrs — ... A. |
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Elegiac Stanzas ... 283 Fanny of Timmol ... . A. A Night-thought . . . ib Elegiac Stanzas . .... 284 The Kiss A. To A |
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To a Lady, with some manuscript poems Tn Mr- |
ib. 273 ib. ib. ib. ib. 274 A. |
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A reflection at Sea ib |
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An ode upon morning . . 285 Song A Come, tell me where the maid is found . 286 Sweetest love ! I' 11 not forget thee . A. If I swear by that eye . . . A. Julia's Kiss A. To i&. |
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Inconstancy .... Imitation of Catullus |
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•M = ' T U 1 |
ib. 275 ib. ib. A. 276 A. ,7, |
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To Mrs. M . . . • Song ... , . . To Julia . ... |
Fly from the world, O Bessy ! to me . . 287 Think on that look of humid roy . . A. A captive thus to thee . . . . A The Catalogue ib A Fragment . ... 288 Where is the nymph A. When time who steals our years away . ib. The Shrine A. |
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Sympathy .... |
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|
ib. |
The Ring ib. |
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Of all my happiest hours of joy . .292 To a boy with a watch ... A. Fragments of College exercises . . . ib. Mary, I believed thee true . . . 293 Why does azure deck the sky . . A. Morality, a familiar epistle ... ib. The Natal Genius, a dream . . . 294 THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. Preface etc . 295 |
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Written in the blank leaf of a Lady's com- mon-place b6ok . . |
ih. 277 ib. ib. ih. ib. 278 A. A. A. A. 279 A. ih |
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To Ditto ... ... Rondeau ...... An Argument to any Phillis or Chloe To Rosa |
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Notes .... ... 311 IRISH MELODIES.— No. I. Advertisement to the First and Second Num- bers 316 |
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Oh, woman, if by simple wile ... |
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The Kiss To Mi-?3 • j |
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Go where glory waits thee . . . ib. Remember the glories of Brien the brave 317 Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes A. Oh ! breathe not his name . . . A. When he who adores thee . . . ib. The harp that once through Tara's halls . A. Fly not yet, 't is just the hour . 318 Oh! think not my spirits are always as light A. Though the last glimpse of Erin . . A. Rich and rare were the gems she wore . ib. As a beam o'er the face of the waters . 319 There is not in this wide world . . A. No. II. Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle . . A. How dear to me the hour when daylight dies A. Take back the virgin page A. When in death I shall calm recline . . 320 How oft has the Benshee cried . . A. We may roam through this world . . it). Oh ! weep for the hour .... 321 Let Erin remember the days of old . . A. Silent, oh Moyle ! be the roar of thy water A. Come, send round the wine . . A |
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Nonsense ... . . To Julia, on her birth-day ... |
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To Rosa .... . . Love in a Storm . . . Song . .... The surprise . ... |
A. A. A. 280 A. ib |
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To Phillis |
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Song . .... The Ballad |
A. ih. ib. 281 A. A. A. A. A. il |
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lure's Kiss ..... To a Lady, on her Singing A Dream Written in a common-place book . |
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Song . The tear . . .... To |
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To Julia weeping . . . . |
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CONTENTS
Page. Sublime wm« the warning which Liberty
•poke 3**
Believe m«, if all tho«e endearing young
charms ... . *»•
No III.
Letter to the Marchioness Dowager of Do- negal *•
Like the bright lamp that shone . . .325 Drink to her, who long . . . Oh ! blame not the bard . . . 326
While gazing on the moon's light . it.
Wh.-n daylight was yet sleeping under the
billow . #•
By the hope, within us springing . . 327 Night closed around the conqueror's way 16. Oh ! t' is sweet to think, that, where'er we
roam •&•
Through grief and through danger . . 323 When through life unbless'd we rove . ib. It is not the tear at this moment shed . . A. T is believed that this harp, which I wake
now Si.
No. IV.
Advertisement 329
Oh ! the days are gone, when beauty bright ib. Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we '11
forget them '?>•
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past . . 330 Lesbia hath a beaming eye . . . ih. I saw thy form in youthful prime . . ib. By that lake, whose gloomy shore . . 331 She is far from the land where her young
hero sleeps ib.
Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns ih. Avenging and bright fell the swift sword of
F.rin .... . ib.
What the bee is to the floweret . . . 332 Here we dwell, in holiest bowers . . >6. This life is all chequer' d with pleasures and
woe* . . . . . S>.
No. V.
Advertisement ..... 333
Through Erin's isle 16.
At the 'mid hour of night, when stars are
weeping ,7,.
One bumper at parting! — though many .334 *T is the lart rose of summer . . . j7». The young May-moon is beaming, love . ib. The minstrel-boy to the war is gone . ib. The valley lay smiling before me . . «6. Oh! had we some bright little isle . . 335 Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the
hour ,7,
Oh ! doubt me not — the season . . ih. You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 33f> I *d mourn the hopes that leave me . . ib No. VI.
Advertisement .... ?7>
»>r the sea ,7,
Has sorrow thy young days shaded . 337 No, not more welcome the fairy numbers ih. :ir*t I met thee, warm and young . #>. VN hile History's muse the memorial was
338
Page
The time I 've lost in wooing 33ft
Where is the slave, so lowly . . it.
Come, rest in this bosom, . . . ib. 'T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw
breaking 339
I saw from the beach ... 16.
Fill the bumper fair ! . . . «&
Dear harp of my country . . ib.
No. VII.
Advertisement 340
My gentle harp ! once more I waken tb
As slow our ship her foamy track . i?>.
In the morning of life, when its cares are
unknown 34
When cold in the earth lies the friend . 3> Remember thee ! yes, while there "s life in
this heart . ib
Wreath the bowl li
Whene'er I see those smiling eyes . . 34S If thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air . ib. To ladies' eyes a round, boy . ib.
Forget not the field where they perish'd . ib They may rail at this life — from the hour I
began it 343
Oh for the swords of former time . . ib. No. VIII.
Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us . ib.
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark . ib.
Yes, sad one of Sfcon — if closely resembling 344 Drink of this cup — you '11 find there 's a spell ib- Down in the valley come meet me to-nignt ib Oh, ye dead ! oh, ye dead ! whom we know 345 Of all the fair months that round the sun ib How sweet the answer Echo makes . . ib Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers ib. The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking 346 Shall the harp then be silent . . . ib. Oh, the sight entrancing . . . tZ>. No. IX.
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well . . 347 'T was one of those dreams . . ib.
Fairest ! put on awhile . . . . ib. Quick! we have but a second . . 348 And doth not a meeting like this . . ib. In yonder valley there dwelt, alone . 349 Aa vanquished Erin wept beside . . ib. By the Feal's wave benighted . . ib.
They know not my heart . . &.
I wish I was by that dim lake . . . 350 She sung of love, — while o'er her lyre . ib. Sing, sing, music was given . . ib.
NATIONAL AIRS.— No. I.
Advertisement 351
A temple to Friendship. — Spanish Air . ib. Flow on, thou shining river. — Portuguest
Air ib.
All that 's bright must fade. — Indian Air . ib. So warmly we met. — Hungarian Air . ib Those evening bells.— AIR, The Bella of St.
Petersburgh . . .352
Should those fond hopes. — Portuguese Air ib Reason, Folly, and Beauty. — Italian Air ih Fare thee well, thou lovely one ! — Sicilian
Air . ib
CONTENTS.
Vll
Pqp.
Dost thou remember ? — Portuguese Air . 352 Oh ! come to me when daylight sets. — Ve-
iictinn Air ...... 363
Oft, in the stilly night. — Scotch Air . ib. Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing. — Russian
Air *&.
No. II.
Love and Hope. — Swiss Air . . .
There comes a time. — German Air. .
My harp has one unchanging theme. — Swe- dish Air
Oli ! no— not e'en when first we loved. — Cashmerian Air ... .
Peace be around thee ! — Scotch Air
Common Sense and Genius. — French Air .
Then, fare thee well ! — Old English Air
Gaily sounds the Castanet. — Maltese Air.
Love is a hunter-boy. — Languedocian Air
Come, chase that starting tear away. — French Air ......
Joys of youth, how fleeting! — Po-luguese Air *•
Hear me but once. — French Air , . 356
No III.
When Love was a child. — Swedish Air , ib.
Say, what shall be our sport to-day ? — Sici- lian Air ... . . &>.
Bright be thy dreams !— Welsh Air . . ib.
Go, then — 't is vain. — Sicilian Air . . ib.
The crystal hunters. — Siciss Air . . ib.
Row gently here. — Venitian Air , . 357
Oh ! the days of youth. — French Air , ib.
When first that smile. — Venetian Air . . ib.
Peace to the slumberers ! — Catalonian Air ib.
When thou shall wander. — Sicilian Air ib.
Who'll buy my love-knots? — Portuguese Air ib.
See, the dawn from Heaven. — Sung at
Rome on Christmas Eve . . 358
No. IV.
Nets and cages. — Swedish Air . . ib.
When through the piazzetta. — Venetian Air ib.
Go, now, and dream. — Sicilian Air . . ib.
Take hence the bowl. — Neapolitan Air . 359
Farewell, Theresa ! — Venetian Air . . ib.
How oft, when watching stars. — Savoyard
Air i&.
When the first summer bee. — German Air ib.
Though 't is all but a dream. — French Air ib.
'T is when the cup is smiling. — Italian Air ib.
Where shall we bury our shame ? — Neapoli- tan Air 360
Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools. —
Mahralta Air ..... t^.
Here sleeps the bard. — Highland Air . . ib.
SACRED SONGS. No. I.
Thou art, oh God ! . 36r
This world is all a fleeting show . . w. Fallen is thy throne . . . . ib.
Who is the maid ? 3G2
The bird, let loose ib.
Oh ! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear w.
Weep not for those ib.
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine . 363
Sound the loud timbrel . .
Go, let me weep . . . .
Come not, oh Lord ! . . .
Were not the sinful Mary's tears . .
As down in the sunless retreats .
But who shall see ? ....
Almighty God ! — Chorus of priests .
Oh, fair ! oh, purest ....
No. II.
Angel of Charity .... Behold the sun
Lord, who shall bear that day ? . . Oh ! teach me to love thee . . . Weep, children of Israel . . . Like morning, when her early breeze . Come, ye disconsolate . . . Awake, arise, thy light is come . . There is a bleak desert ... Since first thy word ...
Hark ! 't is the breeze .... Where is your dwelling, ye sainted ? . How lightly mounts the muse's wing Go forth to the mount .... Is it not sweet to think, hereafter ? War against Babylon ....
BALLADS, SONGS, etc.
Black and Blue eyes . . .
Cease, oh cease to teruj.t! .
Dear Fanny ....
Did not . ....
Fanny, dearest ! . . .
Fanny was in the grove . . .
From life without freedom .
Here 's the bower . .
Holy be the pilgrim's sleep .
I can no longer stifle .... 1 saw the moon rise clear ... Joys that pass away .
Light sounds the harp .
Little Mary's eye . .
Love and the Sun-Dial .
Love and Time
Love, my Mary, dwells with thee . Love's light summer-cloud . . . Love wand'ring through the golden maze Merrily every bosom boundeth . . Now let the warrior ....
Oh, lady fair!
Oh ! remember the time .... Oh ! see those cherries ...
Oh ! soon return
Oh, yes ! so well .... Oh, yes ! when the bloom ...
One dear smile
Poh, Dermot ! go along with your goster Send the bowl round merrily .
The Day of Love
The Probability
The Song of War
The Tablet of Love ....
The young Rose
When in languor sleeps the heart . When 'midst the gay I meet . . When twilight dews ....
Page.
. 363
ih. . 364
ib. • ib.
ib
. ih. 36a
ib.
ib. ib. 366 16. ib. ib.
ib 367
ib.
ib. 368
ib.
ib.
ib. 369
370
ih.
ib
ib.
ib. 371
ib.
ib.
ib. 372
*
ib
ib.
ib 373
A
ib.
ib 371
ib.
ib.
ib.
ib
ib. 375
ib.
ih.
ib. 376
i
ib. ib 377 ib. ff> ib
CONTENTS.
Will you come to the bower . .
Young Jessica
The Rabbinical Origin of Women .
Farewell, Bessy
To-day, dearest ! is ours
When on the lip the sigh delays .
Here, take my heart ....
Oh ! call it by some better name .
Poor wounded heart . . • •
The East Indian
Pale broken flower ....
The pretty rose-tree .....
Shine out, stars .....
The young muleteers of Grenada . .
Tell her ! oh tell her ....
Nights of Music . ...
Our first young love .... HISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
A Melologue upon national music . .
Lines on the death of Mr. P-rc-v-1 . .
Lines on the death of Sh-r-d-n .
Lines written on hearing that the Austrians had entered Naples ....
The Insurrection of the Papers . .
Parody of a celebrated Letter ...
Anacreontic. — To a Plumassier . .
Extracts from the Diary of a Politician
King Crack and his Idols . . .
Wreaths for the Ministers ....
The new Costume of the Ministers .
Occasional Address . . . . .
The sale of the Tools ....
Little Man and little Soul ....
Reinforcements for Lord Wellington
I/ord Wellington and the Ministers . .
Fum and Hum, the two birds of nyalty
Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben .
To Lady Holland, on Napoleon's legacy of a snuff-box
Correspondence between a lady and gentle- man .... . .
Horace, ode XI. lib. II .
, ode XXII. lib. I
, ode I. lib. Ill
, ode XXXVIII. lib. I. .
To . Die when you will . .
Impromptu. — Between Adam and me
What is ray thought like ?
Epigram. What news to-day? . .• .
Said his Highness to Ned .
I want the court-guide
I never give a kiss . .
377 . ib. 378
On a squinting poetess The torch of Liberty
Epilogue
To the memory of J. Atkinson, Esq. Epitaph on a well-known poet The Sylph's ball
ALCIFURON ..
ft ii,. ft, ft, 37'.i ft, ft, ft, ft
no
ft & ft
3-^1 3vj ft,
3S3 ft,
3S1
3S.5 ft ft ft.
3-7 ft
886 ft
3-.'j ft ft,
390
ft
ft
S'Jl ft.
G'.t-J ft, )-'..
999 t&. ft ft ft, ft ft ft,
S'Jl ft ft,
3V5
Remonstrance to Lord J. Russell . Epitaph on a lawyer . . . . My birth-day . . . . . Fancy — the more I 've view'd this world
Love had a fever
Translation from Catullus .
To my mother; written in a pocket-book
Illustration of a bore .
A Speculation .....
Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed .
Of all the men one meets about
Romance
A Joke versified
Page.
. 396 ib.
On
Like a snuffers, this loving
old dame ....
Factotum Ned
Country-dance and Quadrille .
To those we love we 've drank to-night
Genius and Criticism . .
397 tb ib ib ib ib ib.
39S ib ib.
ib.
ib. 329 400 401
ATTRIBUTED PIECES.
An amatory colloquy between Bank and
Government 402
Ode to the Goddess Ceres ib.
Said a Sovereign to a Note . . . 403 An Expostulation to Lord King . . ib.
Moral positions 404
Memorabilia of last week . . . ib. A hymn of welcome after the Recess . 405 All in the family way ... ib.
Canonization of St. B-tt-rw-rth . . 406 New Creation of peers . . . 407
Cambridge university ib.
Lines written in St. Stephen's chapel, after
the Dissolution .... 403 Copy of an intercepted Despatch . . ib. Mr. Roger Dodsworth .... 409
The Millennium ib.
The three Doctors .... 410
Epitaph on a tuft-hunter .... .»7>. The petition of the Orangemen of Ireland ib. A Vision, by the Author of Christabel .411 News for country cousins ... 41*2 An Incantation, sung by the bubble spirit ib. A dream of turtle, by Sir W. Curtis . 413
A voice from Marathon . . . ib.
Cotton and Corn 414
The Donkey and his panniers . . ib. Ode to the Sublime Porte . . .415
Reflections suggested by a late correspond- ence on the Catholic question . . ib. The Ghost of Miltiades . . . . ib. Corn and Catholics . . . .416
Crockfordiana ib.
The two Bondsmen .... ib. The Periwinkles and the Locusts . 417
A case of libel .... ib.
Literary advertisement . . . 413
The Slave tb
420
\ BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH
OF
THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.
COMPRISLNG ANECDOTES OF ANCIENT MINSTRELSY, ILLUSTRATIVE OP THE "IRISH MELODIES."
BY J. W. LAKE.
NOTWITHSTANDING the number of literary men to whom Ireland has given birth, there is very little connected with their names which conveys to us any thing of a national association ; for the land of their nativity scarcely enjoys a single ray of that brilliant mind, which sheds its intellectual brightness over the iister country. Congreve was an apostate, and Swift only by accident a patriot; whilst Goldsmith was weak enough to affect an air of contempt for a peo- ple whose accent was indelibly stamped on his tongue. We could protract the list of her ungrateful and thoughtless " men of mind" even to our own day ; but the task would be invidious, and we gladly turn from it to one who forms a splendid exception — one who is not ashamed of Ireland, and of whom Ireland is justly proud. —
Land of the Muse ! in glory's lay, m
In history's leaf thy name shall soar When, like a meteor's noxious ray,
The reign of tyranny is o'er; Immortal names have honour'd thee—
A Sheridan, a Wellesley ; And still is beaming round thy shore
The spirit bright of Liberty, For thou canst boast a patriot, Moore!
Mr. Moore is every way an Irishman, in heart, in feelings, and in principles. For his country he has done more than any man living : he has associated her name, her wrongs, and her attributes, with poetry and music, neither of which can ever die, while taste, patriotism, and literature subsists in the world ; and whilst these survive, Ireland will form the theme of Beauty's song, and Irish music the charm of every cultivated mind. But, all extrinsic circumstances apart, there is in the melodies of Mr. Moore a sacred fire, which conveys its vividness to the soul of his readers ; and they must be made of sterner stuff than the ordinary race of men, if their bosoms do not glow with liberal and patriotic enthusiasm, while they pe- /use the harmonious creations of a poet who has clothed the wild and eccentric airs of his country in B
words that burn, and sentiments that find an echo in every generous breast.
Had Mr. Moore done no more than this, he would be entitled to the gratitude of his countrymen ; but his genius, like his own Peri, seems never pleased, but while hovering over the region he loves ; or if it makes a short excursion, it is only in the hope of securing some advantage that may accelerate tlte removal of those disqualifications, which are supposed to exclude happiness from the limits of his country In " Lalla Rookh" he has given his fire-worshippers the wrongs and feelings of Irishmen ; while, in th« " Memoirs of Captain Rock," he has accomplished a most difficult task — written a history of Ireland that has been read.
On such grounds we may well claim for Mr. Moore what he deserves — the crown of patriotism ; but it ia not on this head alone he is entitled to our praise. As a poet, since the lamented death of Byron, he stands almost without a competitor ; and as a prose- writer, he is highly respectable.
Mr. Moore is the only son of the late Mr. Garret Moore, formerly a respectable tradesman in Dublin, where our poet was born on the 28th of May, 1780. He has two sisters ; and hia infantine days seem to have left the most agreeable impressions on his me- mory. In an epistle to his eldest sister, dated Novem- ber, 1803, and written from Norfolk in Virginia, he retraces with delight their childhood, and describes the endearments of home, with a sensibility as exqui- site as that which breathes through the lines of Cow- per on receiving his mother's picture.
He acquired the rudiments of an excellent education under the care of the late Mr. Samuel Whyte, of Grafton-street, Dublin, a gentleman extensively known and respected as the early tutor of Sheridan. He evinced such talent in early life, as determined Ins rather to give him the advantages of a superior edu- cation, and at the early age of fourteen, he was entered a student of Trinity College, Dublin.
Mr. Moore was greatly distinguished while at the University, by an enthusiastic attachment to the liberty
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
and independence of his country, wliich he more than ; ment of Registrar to the Admiralty. "ce pubhcly asserted with uncommon energy and -patent place, and of a description so unsuitable to hu loquence ; and he was equally admired for the splen- temper of mind, that he soon found ,t expedient to \2 of hU Clascal attainments, and the sociability fulfil the duties of it by a deputy, w,th whom, m con of his disposition. On the 19th November, 1799, Mr. | sideration of circumstances, he consented to dm Moore entered himself a member of the honourable the profits accruing from it From th,s situation, Society of the Middle Temple, and in the course of : however, he never denved any emolument : tnough, the year 1800, before he had completed the 20th year a few years since, he suffered some pecuniary •mcon- ofhiaee he published his translation of the "Odes venience, owing to the misconduct of his deputy of Anacreon" into English verse with notes, from Alluding to his trip across the Atlantic, in a work whence in the vocabulary of fashion, he has ever published soon after his return to Europe, he says: •incebe^n designated by the appellation of Anacreon i" Though curiosity, therefore, was certainly not the Moore So early as his twelfth year he appears to motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened have meditated on executing this performance, which, ! that the gratification of curiosity was the only advan- if not a close version, must be confessed to be a fas- j tage which I derived from it. Having remained about cinating one, of this favourite bard. The work is J a week at New York," he continues, "where I saw introduced by a Greek ode from the pen of the Trans- Madame, the half repudiated wife of Jerome Bnona- lator and is dedicated, with permission, to his RoyaJ ; parte, and felt a slight shock of an earthquake, the Highness the Prince of Wales, now George the ! only things that particularly awakened my attention. "Fourth When Mr. Moore first came to London, his j I sailed again for Norfolk, where I proceeded on my youthful appearance was such, that being at a large ; tour northward through Williamsburg, Richmond," dinner-party, and getting up to escort the ladies to the ! etc. In October, 1804, he quitted America on his drawing room, a French gentleman observed, " Ah! le j return to England, in the Boston frigate, commanded petit bon homme qui s'en va!" Mr. Moore's subse- j by Capt. Douglas, whom he has highly eulogized for quent brilliant conversation, however, soon proved ; his attention during the voyage. In 1806, he pub- him to be, though little of stature, yet, like Gay, " in lished his remarks on the Manners and Society of wit a man." Assuming the appropriate name of I America, in a work entitled Odes and Epistles. The Little, our author published, in 1801, a volume of • preface to this little work sufficiently evinced the original poems, chiefly amatory. Of the contents of talent of Mr. Moore as a writer of prose. this volume it is impossible to speak in terms of un- The fate of Addison with his Countess Dowager qualified commendation. Several of the poems ex- ! holding out no encouragement for the ambitious love hibit strong marks of genius: they were the productions 'of Mr. Moore, he wisely and happily allowed his of an age, when the passions very often give a colour- ' good taste to regulate his choice in a wife, and some ing too warm to the imagination, which may in some years ago married Miss Dyke, a lady of great personal degree palliate, if it cannot excuse, that air of lubricity beauty, most amiable disposition, and accomplished which pervades too many of them. In the same manners, in whose society he passes much of his year, his " Philosophy of Pleasure" was advertised, time in retirement at his cottage near Devizes, diver- sified by occasional visits to London. To complete
but was never published.
Mr. Moore's diffidence of his poetical talents in- this picture of domestic happiness, he is the father of duced him to adopt, and with reluctance to reject, as -, several lovely children, on whose education he be- stows the most judicious and attentive care.
Mr. Moore appears equally to have cultivated a taste for music as well as for poesy, and the late cele- brated Dr. Burney was perfectly astonished at his
a motto for his work, the quotation from Horace,
Piimum ego me illorum, quibus dederim csse poctis, Excerpam nurnero; Deque euim concludere versus Dixeru rue iatis —
and at a later period, when his reputation was fully established, he spoke of himself with his wonted mo- desty. " Whatever fame he might have acquired, he attributed principally to the verses which he had adapted to the delicious strains of Irish melody. His Tcreeh, in themselves, could boast of but little merit ; but, like flies presemxl in amber, they were esteemed in consequence of the precious material by which they were surrounded."
Mr. Sheridan, in speaking of the subject of this memoir, iaid, " That there was no man who put so mucli of his heart into his fancy as Tom Moore : that his soul seemed Is if it were a particle of fire sepa- rated from the sun, and was always fluttering to get back to that source of light and heat."
Towaids the autumn of 1803, Mr. Moore embarked for Bermuda ;* where he had obtained the appoint-
• The icene of Shakip«are'i inimitable tragedy of " The Tempeit," U laid to have been laid in the island of Ber-
talent, which he emphatically called " peculiarly his own." Nor has he neglected those more solid attainments which should ever distinguish the well- bred gentleman, for he is an excellent general scholar, and particularly well read in the literature of the middle ages. His conversational powers are great, and his modest and unassuming manners have placed him in the highest rank of cultivated society.
The celebrated poem of Lalla Rookh appeared in 1817; in the summer of which year our pool visited the French capital, where he collected the materials for that humorous production, " The Fudge Family in Paris." In the following year, he went to Ireland, on which occasion a dinner was given to him, on the 8th of June, 1818, at Morrison's Hotel in Dublin, which was graced by a large assemblage of the mosi distinguished literary and political characters. The Earl of Charlemont took the head of the table , Mr. Moore sat on his right hand, and MV. Moore, sen (since dead,) a venerable old gentleman, the father of our bard, was on his left. As soon as the cloth was removed, Non nobis, Domine, was sung by the
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
vocalists present ; numerous loyal and patriotic toasts Followed. The Earl of Charlemont then proposed the memory of the late lamented Princess Charlotte, which was drank in solemn silence ; after which a eweet and plaintive song was sung, in commemora- tion of her late Royal Highness. After a short inter- val, the Earl of Charlemont again rose, and, with a suitable eulogium, proposed the health of the distin- guished Irishman who had honoured the country with his presence. When the applause had subsided, Mr. Moore rose, much affected, and spoke to the follow- ing effect : —
" I feel this the very proudest moment of my whole life ; to receive such a tribute from an assembly like this around me, composed of some of the warmest and manliest hearts that Ireland can boast, is indeed a triumph that goes to my very heart, and awakens there al! that an Irishman ought to feel, whom Irish- men {ike you have selected for such a distinction. — Were my merits a hundred times beyond what the partiality of the noble chairman has invested me with, this moment, this golden moment of my life, would far exceed them all. There are some among you, gentlemen, whose friendship has been the strength and ornament, the ' dulce decus' of my existence ; who, however they differ from my public sentiments, have never allowed that transient ruffle on the surface to impede the progress of the deep tide of friendship beneath ; men who feel that there is something more sacred than party, and whose noble natures, in the worst of times, would come out of the conflict of public opinion, like pebbles out of the ocean, but more smooth and more polished from its asperities by the very agitation in which they had been revolving. To see them beside me on a day like this, is pleasure that lies too deep for words. To the majority of you, gentlemen, I am unknown ; but as your countryman, as one who has ventured to touch the chords of Ire- land's Harp, and whose best fame is made out of the echoes of their sweetness ; as one whose humble talents have been ever devoted, and, with the blessing 'of God, ever shall be devoted to the honour and ad- vancement of his country's name ; whose love for that country, even they, who condemn his manner of showing it, will at least allow to be sincere, and per- haps forgive its intemperance for its truth — setting Him down as ' one who loved, not wisely, but too well :' — to most of you, gentlemen, I say, I am but thus known. We have hitherto been strangers to each other ; but may I not flatter myself that from this night a new era of communion begins between us ? The giving and receiving of a tribute like this is the very hot-bed of the heart, forcing at once all its feel- ing into a fulness of fruit, which it would take years of ordinary ripening to produce ; and there is not a man of you who has pledged the cup of fellowship this night, of whom I would not claim the privilege j of grasping by the hand, with all the cordiality of a long and well-cemented friendship. I could not say ' moro if I were to speak for ages. With a heart full as this glass, I thank you for your kindness to me, and have the sincere gratification of drinking all your healths."
Lord Allen gave " the memory of Mr. Curran ;" on which a very modest, pathetic, and eloquent speech ivas delivered by his son, in a tone and manner >
that produced the most lively emotion throughout the room.
A gentleman afterwards sang a lively and well- written song, composed for the occasion. The sub- ject was the poets' Election in Olympus, at which there were several candidates, such as Byron, Scott, Southey, etc. ; but which ended in a due return of Moore, who had a great majority of voies. This jeu d'esprit produced much merriment, and the health of the author was drank with applause.
Lord Charlemont then gave 'the living Poets of Great Britain ;' on which Mr. Moore said : —
" Gentlemen, notwithstanding the witty song which you have just heard, and the flattering elevation which the author has assigned me, 1 cannot allow guch a mark of respect to be paid to the illustrious names that adorn the literature of the present day, without calling your attention awhile to the singular constel- lation of genius, and asking you to dwell a little on the brightness of each particular star that forms it. Can I name to yona Byron, without recalling to your hearts recollections of all that his mighty genius has awakened there ; his energy, his burning words, his intense passion, that disposition of fine fancy to wan- der only among the ruins of the heart, to dwell in places which the fire of feeling has desolated, and, like the chesnut-tree, that grows best in volcanic soils, to luxuriate most where the conflagration of passion has left its mark? Need I mention to you a Scott, that fertile and fascinating writer, the vegeta- tion of whose mind is as rapid as that of a northern summer, and as rich as the most golden harvest of the south ; whose beautiful creations succeed each other like fruits in Armida's enchanted garden — ' one scarce is gathered ere another grows !' Shall I recall to you a Rogers (to me endeared by friendship as well as genius,) who has hung up his own name on the shrine of memory among the most imperishable tablets there ? A Southey, not Hie Laureate, but the author of " Don Roderick," one of the noblest and most eloquent poems in any language ? A Campbell, the polished and spirited Campbell, whose song of " Innisfal" is the very tears of our own Irish muse, crystaiized by the touch of genius, and made eternal? A Wordsworth, a poet, even in his puerilities, whose capacious mind, like the great pool of Norway, draws into its vortex not only the mighty things of the deep, but its minute weeds and refuse ? A Crabbe, who has shown what the more than galvanic power of talent can effect, by giving not only motion, but life and soul to subjects that seemed incapable of it ? I could enumerate, gentlemen, still more, and from thence would pass with delight to dwell upon the living poets of our own land ; — the dramatic powers of a Maturin and a Sheil, the former consecrated by the applause of a Scott and a Byron, and the latter by the tears of some of the brighteswfeyes in the em- pire ; the rich imagination of a Phillips, who hns courted successfully more than one muse — the versa- tile genius of a Morgan, who was the first that mated our sweet Irish strains with poetry worthy of their pathos and their force. But I feel 1 have already trespassed too long upon your patience and your time. I do not regret, however, that you have deigned to listen with patience to this humble tribute to the living masters of the English lyre, which I, 'the
lii
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
meanest of the throng,' thus feebly, but heartily, have paid them "
In 1822, our author made a second visit to Paris, where he resided for a considerable time with his amiable wife and family. The fame of liis genius, his social yet unpretending manners, and his musical talents and conversation, acquired him much esteem with the most eminent literary and literary-loving characters of the French capital. During his stay in that city, at the request of Messrs. Galignani, he sat for liis portrait, which was most ably executed by F. Sieurac, and is allowed by all who have seen Mr. Moore to be a masterly likeness. An excellent en- graving from it, is prefixed to the present edition of his works. The writer of this sketch may perhaps be ex- cused for introducing here an impromptu he wrote, in the blank leaf of a book belonging to a little girl, the daughter of Mr. Moore, at his house in the Champs Elysees, Pahs :—
Sweet child ! when on thy beauteous face,
The blush of innocence I view, ' Thy genUe mother'* feature* trace,
Thy lather'* eye of genius too,
If envy wake* a transient sigh,
That face is my apology.
Previous to Mr. Moore leaving Paris, the British nobility and gentry resident in that capital gave him a most splendid dinner at Roberta's. About 60 persons were present ; Lord Trimblestown was in the chair, supported on his right by Mr. Moore, and on his left by the Earl of GrananL The vice-presidents were Sir Godfrey Webster, Sir John Byerley, and the Reverend Archibald Douglas, who superintended the preparations for the banquet, which consisted of every luxury the gastronomic art could produce. Mr. Moore was in high health and spirits ; songs, catches, and glees, blended delightfully with the sparkling Champagne. Several speeches were made by Lord Trimblestown, Messrs. Byerley, Kenney, Grattan, etc. ; and Mr. Moore introduced the toast of " Pros- perity to Old England" in the following eloquent language : —
" As the noble chairman has, in compliment to the land of my birth, given the ever-welcome toast of 'Prosperity to Ireland,' I beg leave to suggest a similar tribute to that other country to which we all belong, and to whose real greatness and solid glory — all Irishman as I am, and with my political and his- torical recollections fresh about me — 1 am most ready to bear testimony and homage before the world. Yes, gentlemen, there may be, and there are (for God forbid that I should circumscribe virtue within any particular latitude,) there may be, and there are high minds, warm hearts, and brave arms every where. But for that genuine high-mindedness, which has honesty for its basis — the only sure foundation upon which any thirs^loiry was ever built — which can dis- tinguish between real, substantial greatness, and that false, inflated glory of the moment, whose elevation, like that of the balloon, is owing to its emptiness, or if not to its emptiness, at least to the levity of its freight — for that good faith, that punctuality in en- gagements, which is the soul of all commercial as well as all moral relations, and which, while it gives to business the confidence and good understanding rf friendship, introduces into friendship the regularity
and matter-of-fact steadiness of business — for that spirit of fairness and liberality among public men, which extracts the virus of personality out of party zeal, and exhibits so often (too often, I am sorry to say, of late) the touching spectacle of the most sturdy po- litical chieftains pouring out at the grave of their most violent antagonists sucli tributes, not alone of justice, but of cordial eulogy, as show how free from all pri- vate rancour was the hostility that separated them — and lastly (as I trust I may say, not only without infringing, but in strict accordance with, that wise tact which excludes party politics from a meeting like the present,) for that true and well-understood love of liberty, which, through all changes of chance and time, has kept the old vessel of the Constitution sea- worthy— which, in spite of storms from without, and momentary dissensions between the crew within, still enables her to ride, the admiration of the world, and will, I trust in God, never suffer her to founder— for all these qualities, and many, many more that could be enumerated, equally lofty and equally vplua- ble, the most widely-travelled Englishman may proudly say, as he sets his foot once more upon the chalky cliffs, — ' This is my own, my native land, and I have seen nothing that can, in the remotest degree, compare with it.'— Gentlemen, I could not help, — in that fulness of heart, which they alone can feel to- wards England who have been doomed to live for some time out of it — paying this feeble tribute to that most noble country ; nor can I doubt the cordiality with which you will drink — ' Prosperity, a long pros- perity to Old England.' "
This speech was hailed with the warmest acclama- tions, and the utmost hilarity prevailed till " morning grey began to peep." Never did more gaiety, good humour, and cordiality grace a poet's festival, than at this farewell dinner to Tom Moore.
To the above specimens of our author's oratorical powers, we subjoin here two other speeches, of more recent date, which he delivered on occasions which called forth all the glow of liis heart, and sympathy of his nature.
On the 6th of last May, the anniversary meeting of the patrons and friends of the " Artists' Benevo- lent Fund" was held at the Freemasons' Ta«rn, the Right Hon. Frederick Robinson, Chancellor of the Exchequer, in the chair. In the course of the even- ing, Mr. Shee, R. A., proposed as a toast " The health of Thomas Moore, and Thomas Campbell," which was drunk with enthusiastic applause. Immediately after this Mr. Moore rose, and returned thanks ad follows : —
" I assure the meeting that I feel very sensibly and very strongly the high honour which has been con- ferred on me, nor do I feel it the less sensibly, from the kind and warm-hearted manner in which the toast hast been proposed by my excellent friend and fellow- countryman. To have my name coupled with tha> of Mr. Campbell, I feel to be no ordinary distinction. If a critical knowledge of the arts were necessary foi a just admiration of them, I must at once admit, much as I delight in them, that I cannot boast of that know ledge. I am one of those uninitiated worshippers who admire very sincerely, though perhaps I could not, like the initiated, give a perfectly satisfactory reason for my admiration. I enjoy the arts, as a man
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
unacquainted with astronomy enjoys the beauty of sunset, or the brilliant wonders of a starry night. Amongst the many objects of commiseration with which the world unfortunately abounds, there is not one that appeals more intensely to the feelings than Ihe family which a man of genius leaves behind him, desolate and forsaken ; their only distinction the re- flected light of a name which renders their present misery more conspicuous, and the contemplation of which must add poignancy to their sufferings. There is no object under heaven more sure to be visited with the blessings of success than that which has in view the alleviation of such misery. I am happy to find that the Government, of which the Right Ho- nourable Chairman forms a part, has taken the fine urts under their protection. It is for them a proud and honourable distinction, that, while they show they possess the talents of statesmen, they also prove they have the liberal feelings which belong to men of taste."
Tffis speech was received with repeated cheering, and the eloquent speaker sat down amidst the loudest applause.
At the 37th Anniversary of the " Literary Fund Society," Sir John Malcolm introduced the health of our poet in the following manner : —
" It is another remarkable feature of this Institution, that its applause may be valuable to genius, when its money is not wanted. I allude to one now present amongst us, whom I have not the honour of knowing personally, but whose fame is well known all. over <Jie world. I now claim the liberty to pay my tribute of admiration to the individual in question ; for, al- though I have spent a great part of my life in distant climes, his fame has reached me ; and the merit of one of his works I am myself well able to appreciate —I mean Lalla Rookh — in which the author has combined the truth of the historian with the genius of the poet, and the vigorous classical taste of his own country with the fervid imagination of the East. I propose the health of Mr. Thomas Moore."
The health was then received witli all the honours ; jpon which Mr. Moore rose and said : —
"I feel highly flattered by the compliment now paid me, although there are others who might more justly have laid claim to it — I allude to the translator of Oberon (Mr. Sotheby,) whose genius instructed, enlightened, and delighted the world, long ere a lay of mine appeared before the public. I cannot, how- ever, but feel myself highly honoured by the manner in which my health has been received in such an assem- bly as the present. The soldier is delighted with the applause of his companions in arms ; the sailor loves to hear the praises of those who have encountered the perils of the deep and of naval warfare ; so I cannot help feeling somewhat like a similar pleasure from the approbation of those who have laboured with me in the same field. This is the highest honour which hey can offer, or I can receive. As to the Honoura- »le Baronet who has proposed my health in so flat- ering a manner, I feel that much of what he has said may arise from the influence of the sparkling glass which has been circulating among us. (A laugh.) I do not by any means say that we have yet reached (lie state of double vision (a laugh,) but it is well Iliiown that objects seen through a glass appear mag-
nified and of a higher elevation. There is an anec- dote in the history of literature not unconnected with this topic. When the art of printing was first intro- duced, the types with which the first works were printed were taken down and converted into drinking- cups, to celebrate the glory of the invention. — To lie sure, there have been other literary glasses not quiio. so poetical; for it has been said, that as the warriors of the North drank their mead in the hall of Odin jut of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle — • so booksellers drank their wine out of the skulls of authors. (Laughter and applause.) But different times have now arrived ; for authors have got their share of the uurum potabile, and booksellers have got rather the worst of it. There is one peculiarity at- tendant upon genius, which is well worth mentioning, with reference to the great objects of this admirable Institution. Men of genius, like the precious per- fumes of the East, are exceedingly liable to exhaus- tion . and the period often comes when nothing of it remains but its sensibility ; and the light, which long gave life to the world, sometimes terminates in be- coming a burden to itself. (Great applause.) When we add to that the image of Poverty — when we con- sider the situation of that man of genius, who, in his declining years and exhausted resources, sees nothing before him but indigence — it is then only that we can estimate the value of this Institution, which stretches out its friendly hand to save him from the dire ca- lamity. (Applause.) This is a consideration which ought to have its due effect upon the minds of the easy and opulent, who may themselves be men of genius ; but there may be others who have no property to bestow upon them ; and the person who now ad- dresses you speaks the more feelingly, because he cannot be sure that the fate of genius, which he has just been depicting, may not one day be his own." (Immense applause.)
In 1823, Mr. Moore published "The Loves of the Angels," of which two French translations soon after appeared in Paris. While Mr. Moore was compos- ing this poem, Lord Byron, who then resided in Italy, was, by a singular coincidence, writing a similai poem, with the title of " Heaven and Earth," both of them having taken the subject from the second verse of the 6th chapter of Genesis : " And it came to pass, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of aU which they chose."
The two poets presumed that the Sons of God were angels, which opinion is also entertained by some of Uio fathers of the Church.
We have already alluded to our author's, " Memoirs of Captain Rock," the celebrated " Rinaldo Rinal- dini" of Ireland ; or ra'her the designation adopted by the " Rob Roys" of that unfortunately divided country. Mr. Moore has since increased his reputa- tion, as a prose writer, by his publication of the Life of the late Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheri- dan, which, from the superior sources of information at his command, is, in a literary point of view at least, a valuable acquisition to the lovers of biography.
We here annex a list of Mr. Moore's works, with their respective dates of publication, as far as we have been able to verify them.
The Odes of Anacreon, translated into English
SKuTCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
irrse, with notes; dedicated by permission to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales (his present ;y.) 4to. 1800.
A Candid Appeal to Public Confidence, or Con- siderations on the Dangers of the Present Crisis. 8ro. 1803.
Corruption and Intolerance, two poems. ;les, Odes, and other Poems. 1806. U, un Jer the assumed name of the late Thomas Little, Ksq. 8vo. 1803.
A Letter to the Roman Catholics of Dublin. 8vo. 1810.
M. P., or the Blue Stocking, a comic opera in three •cts, performed at the Lyceum. 1S11.
Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny-Post Bag (in verse,) by Thomas Brown the Younger. 8vo. 1S12.— Of this upwards of fourteen editions have ap- peared in England.
A Selection of Irish Melodies, continued to 9 num- bers.
Mr. Moore completed the translation of Sallust, which )-ad been left unfinished by Mr. Arthur Mur- phy, and he superintended the printing of the work for the purchaser, Mr. Carpenter.
The Sceptic, a philosophical satire.
Lalla Rookh, an oriental romance, dedicated to Samuel Rogers, Esq. 1817.
The Fudpe Family in Paris, letters in verse. 1818. nal Airs, continued to four numbers.
Sacred Songs, two numbers.
Ballads, Songs, etc.
Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress, in verse.
Trifles Reprinted, in verse.
Loves of the Angels. 1823.
Rhymes on the Road extracted from the journal of a travelling member of the Pococurante Society.
Miscellaneous Poems, by different members of the Pococurante Society.
Fables for the Holj Alliance, in verse.
Ballads, Songs, Miscellaneous Poems, etc.
Memoirs of Captain Rock.
The Life of the late Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
For Lalla Rookh Mr. Moore received 3,000 guineas of Messrs. Longman and Co. For the Life of Sheri- dan he was paid 2,000 guineas by the same house. — Mr. Mooru enjoys an annuity of 500Z. from Power, the music-seller, for the Irish Melodies and other lyrical pieces. He has, moreover, lately, we under- stand, engaged to write for the TIMES newspaper, at « salary of 500Z. per annum.
It is well kn^wn that the Memoirs of the late Lord Byron, written by himself, had been deposited in the keeping of Mr. Moore, and designed as a legacy for his benefit. It is also known that the latter, with the consent and at the desire of his lordship, had long ago •old the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of two thousand guineas. These me- moirs are, however, lost to the world : the leading facts relative to which were related in the following letter addressed by Mr. Moore to the English jour- nals •—
"Without entering into the r-spective claims of M-. Murray and myself to the property in these me- moirs (a question which, now that they are destroyed, «an be but of little moment to any one,) it us sufficient
to say that, believing the manuscript still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole reservation of a protest against its total destruction — at least without previous perusal and consultation among the parties. The majority of the persons present disagreed with this opinioni and it teas the only point upon which there did exitt any difference between us. The manuscript was, ac- cordingly, torn and burnt before our eyes; and 1 immediately paid to Mr. Murray, in the presence of the gentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, vith interest, etc., being the amount of what I owed him upon the security of my bond, and for which I now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co.
" Since then the family of Lord Byron have, in a manner highly honourable to themselves, proposed an arrangement, by which the sum thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimbursed to me ; but, from feelings and considerations which it is unnecessary here to ex- plain, I have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their offer."
Before we proceed to offer a few unprejudiced ob- servations on this unpleasant subject, we deem it proper to lay before our readers the various opinions, pro et contra, to which this letter of Mr. 3Ioore gave rise. It is but justice, however, to 3Ir. Moore's high and unblemished reputation to premise, that neither by those who regretted the burning of Byron's Me- moirs, as a public loss, nor by those who condemned it as a dereliction of the most important duty he owed to the memory and fame of his noble-minded friend — by none of these, nor by any one we ever heard of, has Mr. Moore's honour, disinterestedness, or deli- cacy— extreme delicacy — ever been, in the slightest degree impeached.
The enemies of "The Burning" said, that Mr. Moore's explanatory letter was an ingenious but not an ingenuous one — for that, at any rate, it threw no light on the subject. — They cavilled at the words "and it was the only point on which there did exist any difference between us," professing to wonder what other " point" of any consequence could pos- sibly have been in discussion, save that of preserving or destroying the manuscript. They could not see, or were incapable of feeling, what paramount sense of delicacy or duty could operate upon a mind like Mr. Moore's to counterbalance the delicacy and duty due to his dead friend's fame, which, according to them, he had thus abandoned to a sea of idle specu- lation.— Moreover, they were unable to comprehend what business Mr. Murray the bookseller, or any of the gentlemen present, had with the business, when Mr. Moore had redeemed the MS., "with interest, etc.," and with his own money (that is, the sum he borrowed for the purpose.) Finally, it was past their understanding to conceive, how any person could allow his own fair, just, and horn urably-acquired pro- perty to be burnt and destroyed before his eyes, and against his own protested opinion, even if, from an honrsi but too sensitive deference for others, he had conceded so far as to withhold its publication to " a more convenient season ;" or simply to preserve it as precious relic in his family.
To this, the firm supporters of church and state — the pure sticklers for public morals- the friends of
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
decorum and decency — the respecters of the inviola- oility of domestic privacy — the foes to unlicensed wit and poetic license — the disinterested and tender re- garders of Lord Byron's character itself, — one and all proudly replied, that Mr. Moore had performed one of the most difficult and most delicate duties that ever fell to the lot of man, friend, citizen, or Christian to perform, in the most manly, friendly, patriotic, and christian-like manner. As a man, he had nobly sacrificed his private interest and opinion, out of respect to Lord Byron's living connexions; as a friend, he h;id evinced a real and rare friendship by withholding, at his own personal loss, those self-and- Ihoughtlessly-intruded specks and deformities of a great character from the popular gaze, which delights too much to feast on the infirmities of noble minds. As a citizen, he has forborne to display sparkling wit at the expense of sound morality ; and, finally, as a Christian, he had acted like a good and faithful servant of the church, in leaving his friend's memory, and exposing his own reputation, to martyrdom, from the most religious and exalted motives.
The private and particular friends of 3Ir. Moore briefly and triumphantly referred to his unspotted character,
Winch nevor yet the breath of calumny had tainted, and they properly condemned uncharitable conjecture on a subject of which the most that could be said was Causa latut, vis est notissima.
The Examiner newspaper gave the subjoined state- ment, which, if it were properly authenticated, would at once set the matter at rest, to the entire justification of the Bard of Erin.
" We were going to allude again this week to the question between 3Ir. Moore and the public, respect- ing the destruction of Lord Byron's Memoirs. We have received several letters expressing the extreme mortification of the writers on learning the fact, and venting their indignation in no very measured terms against the perpetrators; and we should not have con- cealed our own opinion that, however nobly Mr. Thomas Moore may have acted as regards his own interest, his published letter makes out no justification either in regard to his late illustrious friend, whose reputation was thus abandoned without that defence, which probably his own pen could alone furnish, of many misrepresented passages in his conduct; or in regard to the world, which is thus robbed of a treasure that can never be replaced. But we have learnt one fact, which puts a different face upon the whole matter. It is, that Lord Byron himself did not wish the Memoirs pMiahed. How they came into the hands of Mr. Moore and the bookseller — for what purpose and under what reservations — we shall pro- bably be at liberty to explain at a future time ; for the present, we can only say that such is the fact, as the noble poet's intimate friends can testify."
This is indeed an explanation "devoutly to be wished," nor can we conceive why it should be still delayed. It is highly probable, however, that Mr. Moore will himself fully and satisfactorily elucidate the affair, in the life he is said to be writing of Lord Byron.
Such were the conflicting opinions of the time re-
lating to this mysterious and painfully delicate sub- ject ; on which, however, we are bound to introduce a few summary remarks.
When Lord Byron's death was once ascertained, the whole interest of society seemed centered in his Memoirs. Curiosity swallowed up grief; and people, becoming wearied by the comments of other writers on him who was no more, turned with unexampled anxiety to know what he had written upon himself Whether or not the public had a right to these Me- moirs, is a question which it is not, perhaps, quite useless to discuss. It is, at any rate, our opinion that they had the right ; and that the depositary of the manuscript was no more than a trustee for the public, however his individual interest was concerned or consulted. Lord Byron bequeathed his Memoirs to the world. The profits of their sale were alone meant for Mr. Moore. Lord Byron's family had no pretension whatever to the monopoly. And though the delicate consideration of Mr. Moore prompted his offer of having the manuscript perused and puri- fied, if such be the proper word, by the nearest sur- viving relative of Lord Byron, we maintain that he was right, strictly right, in protesting against its un- conditional destruction.
For ourselves, we think that, in respect to the burning, Mr. Moore's conduct is not clearly under- stood or appreciated. Some blame, as we have shown, appears to have been attached to his share in the matter, not only in Great Britain, but on the con- tinent, where the subject excited an interest quite as lively as in England. But it is our opinion that Mr Moore's conduct in the affair has been too hastily condemned. One duty, we think, remains for his performance — but one, and that most imperative : it is to give to the world the genuine work of Lord Byron, if it be in his power to do so. The opinion is at all events wide spread, if not well founded, thai one copy at least of the original work is in existence. That opinion is afloat, and nothing will sink it. If the life which Mr. Moore is supposed to be prepar- ing come out as his own production, it will be diffi cult, if not impossible, to convince the public that i is not a compilation from the copy which we alluda to, or from a memo'-y powerfully tenacious of th« original. If it be not avowed as such, its genuineness v.'ill be doubted, and a dozen spurious lives will pro bably appear, professing to be that identical copy, of" whose existence no one will consent to doubt. No reasoning, nothing, in fact, short of Mr. Moore's positive assertion to the contrary, will persuade peo- ple that he could, for years, have run the risk of leaving so interesting a manuscript, or that he could have entnisted it, without possessing a implicate, in the hands of any one. And, at all events, it will be thought morally certain, that more than one of those to whom it was entrusted had curiosity enough to copy it ; and very improbable that any one had ho- nesty enough to confess it.
Besides these reasons for the publication of the real Memoirs, supposing a copy to exist, there is one of such paramount importance, that we are sure it must have struck every body who has thought at all upon the subject. We mean the retrospective injury done to the character of the deceased, by the conjoo-
zri
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE
tare* which are abroad, as to the nature of the Me- moirs he left behind. We do not pretend to bo in the secret of their contents, but we are quite sure they can be in no way so reprehensible, as the public ima- gination, and the enemies of Lord Byron, have figured them to be ; and there is one notion concern- ing them, of a nature too delicate to touch upon, and for the removal of which no sacrifice of individual or family vanity would be a price too high. We have, J moreover, good authority for believing that the Me- ; mom might and ought to have been published, with ' perfect safety to public morals, and with a very con- siderable gratification to public anxiety. Curiosity, which is so contemptible in individuals, assumes a »ery diffeient aspect when it is shared by society at large ; and a satisfaction which may be, in most in- stances, withheld from the one, ought very rarely to be refused to the other. Nothing has ever had such power of excitement upon the mass of mankind as private details of illustrious individuals ; and, most of all, what may be called their confessions : and if those individuals choose to make their opinions as much the property of the world after their death, as their conduct and works had been before, we repeat, that it is nothing short of a fraud upon the public to snatch away the treasure of which they were die just in- heritors. Nor must it be said that the property in question is of no intrinsic value. Every thing which ministers to the public indulgence is of wealth pro- portioned to its rarity — and in this point of view Lord Byron's Memoirs were beyond price. If they con- tain gross scandal, or indecent disclosure, let such parts be suppressed ; and enough will remain amply to satisfy all readers. But we say this merely for the sake of supposition, and for the purpose of refuting an argument founded in an extreme case ; we have great pleasure in believing that the only pretence for such an imputation on the manuscript, was the selfish or squeamish act of its suppression.
We trust that Mr. Moore will yet consider well the part he has to perform ; that he is not insensible to the narrow scrutiny which the public displays in this affair, and which posterity will confirm ; and that he will, on this occasion, uphold the character for in- ttgrity and frankness which is *o pre-eminently his. We speak with certitude of his disinterested and up- right feelings throughout; we only hope his delicacy towards others may not lead him too far towards the risk of his own popularity, or the sacrifice of what we designate once more the public property.
If credit may be given to Captain Medwin, Lord Byron was most desirous for the posthumous print- ing of his Memoirs ; and he seems, indeed, to have intrusted them to Mr. Moore, as a safeguard against that very accident into which the high-wrought no- tions of delicacy of the trustee, and his deference to the relations and friends of the illustrious deceased, actually betrayed them. Lord Byron seems to have been aware of the prudery of his own immediate con- nexions ; and in the way in which he bestowed the manuscript, to have consulted at once his generous disposition towards a friend, and his desire of security i gainst mutilation or suppression. On this subject Captain Modwin's Journal makes him speak as fol- low* ; " I am sorry not to have a copv of my Memoirs
to show you. I gave them to Moore, or rather to Moore's little boy."*
"I remember saying, 'Here are two thousand pounds for you, my young friend.' I made one re- servation in the gift — that they were not to be publish- ed till after my death."
" I have not the least objection to their being cir- culated ; in tiict they have been read by some of mine, and several of Moore's friends and acquaintances among others they were lent to Lady Burghersh. On returning the manuscript, her ladyship told Moore that she had transcribed the whole work. This was un pen fort, and he suggested the propriety of her destroying the copy. She did so, by putting it into the fire in his presence. Ever since this hap- pened, Douglas Kinnatrd has been recommending me to resume possession of the manuscript, thinking to frighten me by saying, that a spurious or a real copy, surreptitiously obtained, may go forth to the world. I am quite indifferent about the world know- ing all that they contain. There are very few licen- tious adventures of my own, or scandalous anecdolea that will affect others, in the book. It is taken up from my earliest recollections, almost from child- hood— very incoherent, written in a very loose and familiar style. The second part will prove a good lesson to young men ; for it treats of the irregular life I led at one period, and the fatal consequences of dissipation. There are few parts that may not, and none that will not, be read by women."
In this particular Lord Byron's fate has been sin- gular; and a superstitious person might be startled at the coincidence of so many causes, all tending to hide his character from the public. That scandal and envy should have been at work with such a man is not very extraordinary ; but the burning of his Me- moirs, and the subsequent injunction on the publica- tion of his Letters to his Mother, seem as if some- thing more than mere chance had operated to preserve unconfuted the calumnies of the day, for the benefit of future biographers. Of these Letters a friend of ours was fortunate enough to obtain a glimpse, and never, he told us, was more innocent, and at the same time more valuable matter, so withheld from the world. It were, he observed, but an act of cold justice to the memory of Lord Byron to state, pub- licly, that they appear the reflections of as generous a mind as ever committed its expression to paper : for though, indeed, the traces of his temperament, and of his false position in society, are there, still the sen- timents are lofty and enthusiastic ; and every line be- trays the warmest sympathy with human suffering, and a scornful indignation against mean and disgrace- ful vice.
The extempore song, addressed by Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy, proves the familiar intercourse and friendship that subsisted between him and the subject of this memoir. The following stanzas are very expressive : —
* There is snme trifling inaccuracy in this, as Moore* son was not with him in Italy. It is nevertheless true, as we are assured, that thin was the turn which Lord Byron gnve to his prewnt, in order to make it more acceptable to his friend.
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
Were 't the la»t drop in the well, As I gasp'd t pon the brink,
Ere my tainting spiril li-ll,
'T is to tk'K that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine, The libation 1 would pour
Should be — Peace to thine and mine, And a health to t/tee, Turn Moorel
King George the Fourth did not forget to pay off the Prince of Wales's " old score" with our poet : — In the king's presence, a critic, speaking of the "Life of Sheridan," declared that Moore had murdered his friend. " You are too severe," said his Majesty, " I cannot admit that Mr. Moore has murdered Sheridan, but he lias certainly attempted his lift'.'''
It was not till after the Prince of Wales's invest- When Lord Byron had published his celebrated | rnent with regal power, that Mr. Moore levelled the satire of " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," in keen shafts of his "grey goose quill" against that which our poet, in common with most of his distin- illustrious personage. He had previously dedicated guished contemporaries was visited rather "too j the translation of A nacreon to His Royal Highness, roughly" by the noble modern Juvenal, his lordship j by whom, it is said, his poetry was much admired, expected to be " called out," as the fashionable phrase | We question, though, if his verse was as palatable to is ; >wt no one had courage to try his prowess in the i the Prince Regent, as it had been to the Prince of
field, save Mr. Moore, who did not relish the joke about " Little's leadless pistols," and sent a letter to his lordship in the nature of a challenge, but which he, by his leaving the country, did not receive. On Byron's return, Mr. Moore made inquiry if he had
Wales. Mr. Moore, perhaps, thought as one of his predecessors had done on this subject, of whom the following anecdote is recorded. Pope, dining one day with Frederic, Prince of Wales, paid the prince many compliments. "I wonder," said his Royal
received the epistle, and stated that, on account of Highness, "that you, who are so severe on kings, certain changes in his circumstances, he wished to | should be so complaisant to me." " It is," replied recal it, and become the friend of Byron, through ! the witty bard, " because I like the lion before lu's
Rogers, the author of "The Pleasures of 3Iemory," and who was intimate with both the distinguished bards. The letter, addressed to the care of Mr. Hanson, had been mislaid ; search was made for it, and Byron, who at first did not like this ofler, of one hand with a pistol, and the other to shake in fellow- ship, felt very awkward. On the letter being re- covered, however, he delivered it unopened to Mr. Moore, and they afterwards continued, to the last, most particular friends.
It is but justice to the unquestionable courage and spirited conduct of the Bard of Erin, to observe here, that, though Byron had stated the truth about the said " leadless pistols," he had not stated the whole truth. The facts were these : Mr. Jeffrey, the celebrated critic, and editor of the Edinburgh Review, had, in ''good set phrase." abused the Poems cf Thomas Little, Esq., nl'mx Thomas Moore, Esq. ; and the lat- ter, not choosing to put up with the H.igeilution of the then modern Aristarchus, challenged him. When they arrived at Chalk Farm, the place fixed on for the duel, the police were ready, and deprived them of their fire-arms. On drawing their contents, the com- pound of "villanous saltpetre" was found, but the cold lead,
The pious metal most in requisition On such occasions,
had somehow disappeared. The cause was this : One of the balls had fallen out in the carriage, and the seconds, with a laudable anxiety to preserve the public peace, to save the shedding of such valuable blood, and 'o make both equal, drew the other ball.
In his youth Mr. Moore was in the high road to court favour, and had his spirit been less independent, we might even have had a Sir Thomas More in our days. It is said that when the juvenile Anacreon was introduced to the then Prince of Wales, His Royal Highness inquired of him whether he was a son of Dr. Moore, the celebrated author of Zeluco ; and that the bard promptly replied, " No, Sir ; I am the son of * grocer at Dublin !"
The following anecdote shows that His Majesty C
claws are grown."
The name of Anacreon Moore, by which our au thor is distinguished, is not so much his due from the mere circumstance of his having translated the odes of the Teian bard, as from the social qualities which he is known to possess, and the convivial spirit of his muse. Mr. Moore seems to be of opinion, that If with water you fill up your glasses,
You'll never write any tliinj; wise; For wine is the horse of Parnassus, Which hurries a bard to the skies.
He is not, however, ungrateful for whatever share conviviality may have had in inspiring his muse, but has amply acknowledged it in the elegant and glow- ing terms in which he has celebrated its praises. No individual presides with more grace at the convivial board, nor is there one whose absence is more to be regretted by his friends.
Being on one occasion prevented from attending a banquet where he was an expected guest, and where, in consequence, every thing seemed (to use a familiar phrase) out of sorts, a gentleman, in the fervour of his disappointment, exclaimed, "Give us but one Anacreon more, ye gods, whatever else ye do deny us."
Presiding once at a tavern dinner, where some of the company were complaining that there was no game at the table, a gentleman present, alluding to the fascinating manners of Mr. Moore, who " kept the table in a roar," said, "Why, gentlemen, what better game would you wish than 7«oorgame, of which 1 am sure you have abundance ?"
At another time, after the pleasures of the evening had been extended to a pretty late hour, Mr. D. pro- posed, as a concluding bumper, the health of Mr. Moore ; a toast which, having been twice drank in the course of th'e evening, was objected to as unneces- sary. Mr. D., however, persisted in giving the '.oast; and quoted in support of it the following passage fVora Mr. Moore's translation of the eighth ode of Ana creon. " Let us drink it now," said he,
For death may como with brow unpleasant, Nay corae when least we wish him protcnt,
IVili
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
And beckon to the cable shore, And gtimiy bid u» — drink no Mare!
We here terminate the Biographical part of our •ketch ; and, after a few introductory and general re marks, shall proceed to talte a critical review- of ou author's principal works, including some interesting •ketches and anecdotes of ancient minstrelsy, illus- trative of the " Irish .Melodies."
.Moore is not, like Wordsworth or Coleridge, the poet's poet ; nor is it necessary, in order to enjoy his writings, that we should create a taste for them other than what we received from nature and education. \Vt his style is condemned as tinsel and artificial, whereas the great praise bestowed on those preferred to it is, that they are the only true natural. — Now if it requires study and progressive taste to arrive at a tense of the natural, and but common feeling to enjoy the beauties of the artificial, then certainly these names have changed places since we met them in the dic- tionary.
Formerly, people were content with estimating books — persons are the present objects universally. It is not the pleasure or utility a volume affords, which w taken into consideration, but the genius which it indicates. Each person is anxious to form his scale of excellence, and to range great names, living or dead, at certain intervals and in different grades, self being the hidden centre whither all the comparisons Tcrge. In former times works of authors were com- posed with ideal or ancient models, — the humble crowd of readers were content to peruse and admire. At present it is otherwise,— every one is conscious of having either written, or at least having been able to write a book, and consequently all literary decisions affect them personally : —
Scribendi oibil a me alienum puto,
is the language of the age; and the most insignificant calculate on the wonders they might have effected, had chance thrown a pen in their way. — The literary character has, in fact, extended itself over the whole fcce of society, with all the evils that D' Israeli has enumerated, and ten times more — it has spread its fibres through all ranks, sexes, and ages. There no longer exists what writers used to call a public — that disinterested tribunal has long since merged in the body h used to try. Put your finger on any head in • crowd — it belongs to an author, or the friend of one, and your great authors are supposed to possess a quantity of communicable celebrity : an intimacy with one of them is a sort of principality, and a stray anec- dote picked up, rather a valuable sort of possession. These people are always crying out against person- ality, and personality is the whole business of their lives. They can consider nothing as it is by itself; the cry is, " who wrote it ?"— " what manner of man -"where did he borrow it?" They make puppets of literary men by their impatient curiosity ; •nd when one of themselves is dragged from his ma- lign obscurity in banter or whimsical revenge, he calls upon all the gods to bear witness to the malignity he i* made to suffer.
It is this spirit which ha* perverted criticism, and reduced it to a play of words. To favour this vain p«prn»r*» of comparison, all powers and faculties are Mrolvcd at once into grntu*— that vague quality, tlie
supposition of which is at every one's command ; and characters, sublime in one respect, as they are con temptible in another, are viewed under this one aspect. The man, the poet, the philosopher, are blended, and the attributes of each applied to all without distinction. One person inquires the name of a poet, because he is a reasoner ; another, because he is mad ; another, because he is conceited. John- son's assertion is taken for granted — that genius is but great natural power directed towards a particular object: thus all are reduced to the same scale, and measured by the same standard. This fury of com- parison knows no bounds ; its abettors, at the same time that they reserve to themselves the full advan- tage of dormant merit, make no such allowance to established authors. They judge them rigidly by their pages, assume that their love of fame and emolument would not allow them to let any talent be idle, and will not hear any arguments advanced for their unex- pected capabilities.
The simplest and easiest effort of the mind is egotism, — it is but baring one's own breast, disclosing its curious mechanism, and giving exaggerated ex pressions to every-day feeling. Yet no production! have met with such success ; — what authors can com- pete, as to popularity, with Montaigne, Byron, Rous- seau ? Yet we cannot but believe that there have been thousands of men in the world who could have walked the same path, and perhaps met with the same success, if they had had the same confidence. Pas- sionate and reflecting minds are not so rare as we suppose, but the boldness that sets at nought society is. Nor could want of courage be the only obstacle, there are, and have been, we trust, many who would not exchange the privacy of their mental sanctuary, for the indulgence of spleen, or the feverish dream of popular celebrity. And if we can give credit for this power to the many who have lived unknown and shunned publicity, how much more must we not be inclined to allow to him of acknowledged genius, and who has manifested it in works of equal beauty, and of greater merit, inasmuch as they are removed from self? It has been said by a great living author and poet,* that " the choice of a subject, removed from self, is the test of genius."
These considerations ought, at least, to prevent us from altogether merging a writer's genius in his works, and from using the name of the poem and that of the poet indifferently. For our part, we think that f Thomas Moore had the misfortune to be meta- physical, he might have written such a poem as the Excursion, — that had he condescended to borrow, and at the same time disguise the feelings ofthe great Ixike Poets, he might perhaps have written the best parts of Childe Harold — and had he the disposition or the whim to be egotistical, he might lay bare a mind of his own as proudly and as passionately orpar.ized as the great lord did, whom some one describes " to have jutted himself body and soul, for all the world to walk in and see the show."
So much for the preliminary cavils which are thrown in the teeth of Moore's admirers. They have been picked up by the small fry of critics, who com- menced their career with a furious attack on him,
* Coleridg*
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
I'ope, and Campbell, bnt have since thought it becom- ing to grow out of their early likings. And at present they profess to prefer the great works which they have never read, and which they will never be able to read, to those classic poems, of which they have been the most destructive enemies, by bethumbing and quoting their beauties into triteness and common- place.
The merits of Pope and Moore have suffered de- preciation from the same cause — the facility of being imitated to a certain degree. And as vulgar admira- tion seldom penetrates beyond this degree, the con- clusion is, that nothing can be easier than to write like, and even equal to, either of these poets. In the universal self-comparison, which is above mentioned, is the foundation of modern criticism, feeling is as- sumed to be genius — the passive is considered to imply the active power. No opinion is more com- mon or more fallacious — it is the " flattering unction" which has inundated the world with versifiers, and which seems to under-rate the merit of compositions, in which there is more ingenuity and elegance than passion. Genius is considered to be little more than a capability of excitement — the greater the passion the greater the merit ; and the school-boy key on which Mr. Moore's love and heroism are usually set, is not considered by any reader beyond his reach. This is certainly Moore's great defect ; but it is more that of his taste than ->t any superior faculty.
We shall now proceed to notice the most laboured and most splendid of Mr. Moore's productions — "LallaRookh:"—
Then if, while scenes BO grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride, for thine own dear land,
Should Imply be stealing o'er thee; Oh ! let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious, To think how man hath curst,
What Heaven hath made so glorious.
Several of our modern poets had already chosen the luxuriant climate of the East for their imagina- tions to revel in, and body forth their shapes of light; but it is no less observable that they had generally failed, and the cause we believe to be this — that the partial conception and confined knowledge which they naturally possessed of a country, so opposed in the character of its inhabitants and the aspect of its scenery to their own, occasion them, after the man- ner of all imperfect apprehenders, to seize upon its Drornuient features and obvious characteristics, with- out entering more deeply into its spirit, or catching its retired and less palpable beauties. The sudden transplantation of an European mind into Asiatic scenes can seldom be favourable to its well-being and progress ; at least none but those of the first order would be enabled to keep their imaginations from de- generating into inconsistency and bombast, amid the swarms of novelties which start up at every step. Thus it is that, in nearly all the oriental poems added to our literature, we had the same monotonous as- semblage of insipid images, drawn from the peculiar phenomena and natural appearances of the country.
We have always considered Asia as naturally the home of poetry, and the creator of poets. What makes Greece so poetical a country is, that at every
step we stumble over recollections of departed gran- deur, and behold the scenes where the human mind has glorified itself for ever, and played a part, the re cords of which can never die. But in Asia, to the same charm of viewing the places of former power — of comparing the present with the past — there is added a luxuriance of climate, and an unrivalled beauty of external nature, which, ever according with the poet's soul,
Temper, and do befit him to obey High inspiration.
It was reserved for Mr. Moore to redeem the character of oriental poetry, in a w»rk which stands distinct, alone, and proudly pre-eminent above all that had preceded it on the same subject.
Never, indeed, has the land of the sun shone out so brightly on the children of the north — nor the sweets of Asia been poured forth — nor her gorgeousness displayed so profusely to the delighted senses of Eu- rope, as in the fine oriental romance ot* Lalla Rookh. The beauteous forms, the dazzling splendours, the breathing odours of the East, found, at last, a kindred poet in that Green Isle of the West, whose genius haa long been suspected to be derived from a wanner clime, and here wantons and luxuriates in these vo- luptuous regions, as if it felt that it had at length re- cognized its native element. It is amazing, indeed, how much at home Mr. Moore seems to be in India, Persia, and Arabia; and how purely and strictly Asiatic all the colouring and imagery of his poem ap- pears. He is thoroughly imbued with the character of the scenes to which he transports us; and yet the extent of his knowledge is less wonderful than the dexterity and- apparent facility with which he has turned it to account, in the elucidation and embellish- ment of his poetry. There is not a simile, a descrip- tion, a name, a trait of history, or allusion of romance, which belongs to European experience, that does not indicate entire familiarity with the life, nature, and learning of the East.
Nor are the barbaric ornaments thinly scattered to make up a show. They are showered lavishly over the whole work ; and form, perhaps too much, the staple of the poetry, and the riches of that which is chiefly distinguished for its richness. We would con- fine this remark, however, to the descriptions of ex- ternal objects, and the allusions to literature and history — to what may be termed the materiel of the poetry we are speaking of The characters and sen- timents are of a different order. They cannot, in- deed, be said to be copies of an European nature ; but still less like that of any other region. They are, in truth, poetical imaginations ; — but it is to the poe- try of rational, honourable, considerate, and humane Europe that they belong — and not to the childishness, cruelty, and profligacy of Asia.
There is something very extraordinary, we think, in this work — and something which indicates in the author, net only a great exuberance of talent, but a very singular constitution of genius. While it is moie splendid in imagery — and for the most part in very good taste — more rich in sparkling thoughts ana original conceptions, and more full indeed of exqui- site pictures, both of all sorts of beauties, and all soru I of virtues, and all sorts of sufferings and crimes, than | any other poem which we know cf ; we rather think
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
we speak the wen* of all classes of readers, when we add, that the effect of the whole is to mingle a certain fliiing of disappointment with that of admiration — to excite admiration rather than any wanner senti- ment of delight — to dazzle more than to enchant — and, in the end, more frequently to startle the fancy and fatigue the attention, with the constant succession of glittering images and high-strained emotions, than to maintain a rising interest, or win a growing sympa- thy, by a less profuse or more systematic display of attractions.
The style is, on the whole, rather diffuse, and too unvaried in its character. But its greatest fault is the uniformity of its brilliancy — the want of plainness, limplkity, and repose. We have heard it observed by some very zealous admirers of Mr. Moore's genius, that you cannot open this book without finding a cluster of beauties in every page. Now, this is only another way of expressing what we think its greatest defect. No work, consisting of many pages, should have detached and distinguishable beauties in every one of them. No great work, indeed, should have many beauties : if it were perfect it would have but one, and that but faintly perceptible, except on a view of the w hole. Look, for example, at what is the most finished and exquisite production of human an — the design and elevation of a Grecian temple, in its old severe simplicity. What penury of ornament — what neglect of beauties of detail — what masses of plain surface — wnat rigid economical limitation to the useful and the necessary ! The cottage of a peasant is scarcely more simple in its structure, and has not fewer parts that are superfluous. Yet what grandeur — what elegance — what grace and completeness in the effect! The whole is beautiful — because the beauty is in the whole ; but there is little merit in any of the parts except that of fitness and careful finishing. Contrast this with a Dutch, or a Chinese pleasure- house, where every part is meant to be beautiful, and the result is deformity — where there is not an inch of the surface that is not brilliant with colour, and rough with curves and angles,— and where the effect of the whole is displeasing to the eye and the taste. We are as far as possible from meaning to insinuate that Mr. Moore's poetry is of this description ; on the con- trary, we think his ornaments are, for the most part, truly and exquisitely beautiful ; and the general design of his pieces extremely elegant and ingenious : all that we mean to say in, that there is too much orna- mem — too many insulated and independent beauties — and that the notice and the very admiration they excite, hurt the interest of the general design, and withdraw our attention too importunately from it.
Mr. Moore, it appears to us, is too lavish of his gems and sweets, and it may truly be said of him, in his poetical capacity, that he would be richer with half his wealth. His works are not only of rich ma- lerials and graceful design, but thry are every where |ttstening with small beauties and transitory inspira- tions—«udden flashes of fancy that blaze out and perish ; like earth-born meteors that crackle in the lower sky, and unseasonably divert our eyes from the great and lofty bodies which pursue their harmonious courses in a serener region.
We have spoken of these as faults of style— but •»m coula sc&rcely have existed without going
deeper; and though they first strike us as qualities of the composition only, we find, upon a little reflection, that the same general character belongs to the fable, the characters, and the sentiments — that they all are alike in the excess of their means of attraction — and fail to interest, chiefly by being too interesting.
We have felt it our duty to point out the faults of our author's poetry, particularly in respect to Lalla Rookh; but it would be quite unjust to characterize that splendid poem by its faults, which are intin.teiy less conspicuous than its manifold beauties. There is not only a richness and brilliancy of diction and imagery spread over the whole work, that indicate the greatest activity and elegance of fancy in the au- thor; but it is every where pervaded, still more strikingly, by a strain of tender and noble feeling, poured out with such warmth and abundance, as to steal insensibly on the heart of the reader, and gra- dually to overflow it with a tide of sympathetic emo- tion. There are passages, indeed, and these neither few nor brief, over which the very genius of poetry seems to have breathed his richest enchantment — where the melody of the verse and the beauty of the images conspire so harmoniously with the force and tenderness of the emotion, that the whole is blended into one deep and bright stream of sweoti, feeling, along which the spirit of the reader is borne passively through long readies of delight. Mr Moore's poetry, indeed, where his happiest vein is opened, realizes more exactly than that of any other writer, the splendid account which is given by Co mus* of the song of
His mother Circe, and the sirens three,
Amid tin- flowery-kinled Naiades,
Who, as they suns, «ou.d take die prison'd soul,
And lap it in Klysiuin.
And though it is certainly to be regretted that h» should occasionally have broken the measure w.th more frivolous strains, or filled up its intervals with a sort of brilliant fahettti, it should never be forgotten, that his excellences are as peculiar to himself as his faults, and, on the whole, we may assert, more characteristic of his genius.
The legend of Lalla Rookh is very sweetly and gaily told ; and is adorned with many tender as well as lively passages — without reckoning among the lat- ter the occasional criticisms of the omniscient Fadla- deen, the magnificent and most infallible grand cham- berlain of the huram — whose sayings and remarks, by the by, do not agree very well with the character which is assigned him — being for llie most part very smart, snappish, and acute, and by no means solfmn, stupid, and pompous, as one would have expected. Mr. Moore's genius perhaps, is too inveterately lively, to make it possible for him even to counterfeit dul- ness. We must now take a slight glance at the poetry.
The first piece, entitled "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," is the longest, and, we think, certainly not
* Milton, who wan much patronized by the illustrious lioute of Kgerton, wrute the .Mask of Camus upon John Kgi.-rton, then E.vrl ol Briil^ewater, when 'hat nublcmar., 'ttl, was appointed Ix>rd Pn^ident of the principality of Wales. It was performed by three of his Lordship s children, before the Earl, at Ludlow Castle. — Ste tke fforkt •f tke present Earl of Bridgevater
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
ihe best of the series. The story, which is not in all ' the ultimate result, even though they should appro- its parts extremely intelligible, 's founded on a vision, ciate their own productions as highly as Milton his
in d'Herbelot, of a daring impostor of the early ages of IslamLsm, who Dretended to have received a later and more authoritative mission than that of the Pro- phet, and to be destined to overturn all tyrannies and superstitions on the earth, and to rescue all souls that believed in him. To shade the celestial radiance of
Paradise Lost ; while they who succeed in obtaining a large share of present applause, cannot but expe- rience frequent misgivings as to its probable duration : prevailing tastes have so entirely changed, and works, the wonder and delight of one generation, have been so completely forgotten in the next, that extent of
his brow, he always wore a veil of silver gauze, and ! reputation ought rather to alarm than assure an author was at last attacked by the Caliph, and exterminated in respect to his future fame.
with all his adherents. On this story Mr. Moore has engrafted a romantic and not very probable tale : yet, even with all its faults, it possesses a charm almost irresistible, in the volume of sweet sounds and beau- tiful images, which are heaped together with luxurious profusion in the general texture of the style, and invest even the faults of the story with the graceful amplitude of their rich and figured veil.
" Paradise and the Peri" has none of the faults just alluded to. It is full of spirit, elegance, and beauty ; and, though slight in its structure, breathes throughout a most pure and engaging morality.
'The Fire-worshippers" appears to us to be indis-
putably the finest and most powerful poem of them which the infant is soothed in his nursery, with which
all. With all the richness and beauty of diction that belong to the best parts of Mokanna, it has a far more interesting story ; and is not liable to the objections that arise against the contrivance and structure of the leading poem. The general tone of "The Fire-wor- shippers" is certainly too much strained, but, in spite of that, it is a work of great genius and beauty ; and not only delights the fancy by its general brilliancy and spirit, but moves all the tender and noble feel- uigs with a deep and powerful agitation.
The last piece, entitled " The Light of the Haram," is the gayest of the whole ; and is of a very slender fabric as to fable or invention. In truth, it has scarcly any story at all ; but is made up almost en- tirely of beautiful songs and fascinating descriptions.
On the whole, it may be said of " Lalla Rookh," th«it its great fault consists in its profuse finery ; but it should be observed, that this finery is not the vulgar ostentation which so often disguises poverty or mean- ness— but, as we have before hinted, the extravagance of excessive wealth. Its great charm is in the inex- haustible copiousness of its imagery — the sweetness and ease of its diction — and the beauty of the objects ami sentiments with which it is conceived.
Whatever popularity Mr. Moore may have acquired as the author of Lalla Rookh, etc., it is as the author of the " Irish Melodies" that he will go down to pos- terity unrivalled and alone in that delightful species of composition. Lord Byron has very justly and pro- phetically observed, that " Moore is one of the few writers who will survive the a<re in which he so de- servedly flourishes. He will live in his ' Irish Melo- dies ;' they will go down to posterity with the music ; both will last as long as' Ireland, or as music and poetry."
If, indeed, the anticipation of lasting celebrity be the chief pleasure for the attainment of which poets bestow their labour, certainly no one can have en- guged so much of it as Thomas Moore. It is evident that writers who fail to command immediate attention, and who look only to posterity for a just estimate of rhcir merits, must feel more or less uncertainty as to
But Mr. Moore, independently of poetical powers of the highest order — independently of the place he at present maintains in the public estimation — has se- cured to himself a strong hold of celebrity, as durable as the English tongue.
Almost every European nation has a kind of pri- mitive music, peculiar to itself, consisting of short and simple tunes or melodies, which, at the same time that they please cultivated and scientific ears, are the object of passionate and almost exclusive at- tainment by the great body of the people, constituting, in fact, pretty nearly the sum of their musical know- ledge and enjoyment. Being the first sounds with
he is lulled to repose at night, and excited to anima- tion in the day, they make an impression on the ima- gination that can never afterwards be effaced, and are consequently handed down from parent to child, from generation to generation, with as much uni- formity as the family features and dispositions. It is evident, therefore, that he who first successfully in- vests them with language, becomes thereby himself a component part of these airy existences, and commits his bark to a favouring wind, before which it shall pass on to the end of the stream of time.
Without such a connexion as this with the national music of Scotland, it seems to us, that Allan Ram- say's literary existence must have terminated its earthly career long since ; but, in the divine melody of " The YelloiD-hair'd Laddie," he has secured a passport to future ages, which mightier poets might envy, and which will be heard and acknowledged as long as the world has ears to hear.
This is not a mere fancy of the uninitiated, or the barbarous exaggeration of a musical savage who nas lost his senses at hearing Orpheus's hurdy-gurdy, De- cause he never heard any thing better. One 01 the greatest composers that ever charmed the world — the immortal Haydn — on being requested to add sympno- nies and accompaniments to the Scotcli airs, was so convinced of their durability, that he replied — " Mi vanto di questo lavoro, e per cio mi lusingo di nrere in Scozia molti anni dopo la mia morte."
It is not without reason, therefore, that Mr. Moore indulges in this kind of second-sight, and exclaims (on hearing one of his own melodies re-echoed from a bugle In the mountains of Killarney,)
Oh, forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Sevm'd to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim, Even so shall thou live in the echoes of fame ; Even so. though thy mem'ry should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answerinj future, thy name and thy song'
In truth, the subtile essences of these tunes presenf
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
no object upon which time or violence can act. Py- ramids may moulder away, and bronzes be decom- posed ; but the breeze of heaven which fanned them in their splendour shall sigh around them in decay, and by its mournful sound awaken all the recollections of their former glory. Thus, when generations shall have sunk into the grave, and printed volumes been consigned to oblivion, traditionary strains shall pro- long our poet's existence, and his future fame shall not be less certain than his prevent celebrity.
Like the gale that «igli« along
Bed* of oriental flower*, b the grateful breath of long,
That once was heard in happier hours. Fili'ci with balm ihe gale cighs on,
Though the flowers haveiunk in death; So when the Bard of Lore U gone,
Hi* meru'ry lives in Music'* breath!
Almost every European nation, as we before ob- served, has its own peculiar set of popular melodies, differing as much from each other in character as the nations themselves ; but there are none more marked or more extensively known than those of the Scotch and Irish. Some of these may be traced to a very remote era ; while of others the origin is scarcely known ; and this is the case, especially, with the airs of Ireland. With the exception of those which were produced by Carolan, who died in 173S, there are few of which we can discover the dates or composers.
That man}1 of these airs possess great beauty and pathos, no one can doubt who is acquainted with the selections that have been made by Mr. Moore ; but as • genus or a style, they also exhibit the most unequi- vocal proofs of a rude and barbarous origin ; and there is scarcely a more striking instance of the prone- ness of mankind to exalt the supposed wisdom of their ancestors, and to lend a ready ear to the mar- vellous, than the exaggerated praise which the authors of this music have obtained.
It is natural to suppose that in music, as in all other arts, oie progress of savage man was gradual ; that there is no more reason for supposing he should have discovered at once the seven notes of the scale, than that he should have been able at once to find appropriate language for all the nice distinctions of morals or metaphysics. We shall now pass to some interesting accounts of the Bards of the " olden time," which come within the scope of our subject when •peaking of the present Bard of Erin, and his " Irish
Dr. Burney observes, that "the first Greek mu- sicians were gods; the second, heroes; the third, bards , the fourth, beggars !" During the infancy of music in every country, the wonder and affections of the people were gained by surprise; but when mu- sicians became numerous, and ihe art was regarded of easier acquirement, they lost their favour; and, from being seated at the tables of kings, and he'lped lo the first cut, they were reduced to the most abject Mate, and ranked amongst rogues and vagabonds. That this was the cause of the supposed retrograda- lion of Irish music, we shall now proceed to show, by some curious extracts frorr contemporary writers.
The professed Bards, of the earliest of whom we Have not any account, having united to their capacity of musicians the functions of priests, could not fail to
obtain for themselves, in an age of ignorance and credulity, all the influence and respect which thai useful and deserving class of men have never failed to retain, even among nations who esteem themselves the most enlightened. But the remotest period in which their character of musician was disengaged from that of priest, is also the period assigned to the highest triumph of their secular musical skill and respectability. " It is certain," says Mr. Bunting (in his Historical and Critical Dissertation on the Harp,; " that the further we explore, while yet any light re- mains, the more highly is Irish border minstrelsy ex- lotted."
" The oldest Irish tunes (says the same writer) are said to be the most perfect," and history accords with this opinion. Vin. Galilei, Bacon, Stanishurst, Spen- ser, and Camden, in the 16th century, speak warmly of Irish version, but not so highly as Polydore Virgil and Major, in the 15th, Clynn, in the middle of the 14th, or Fordun, in the 13th. As we recede yet fur- ther, we 2nd Giraldus Cambrensis, G. Brompton, and John of Salisbury, in the 12th century, bestowing still more lofty encomiums^ and these, again, falling short of the science among us in the llth and 10th centu- ries. In conformity with this, Fuller, in his account of the Crusade conducted by Godfrey of Bologne, says, " Yea, we might well think that all the concern of Christendom in this war would have made no music, if the frisk Harp had been wanting."
In those early times the Irish bards were invested with wealth, honours, and influence. They wore a robe of the same colour as that used by kings ; were exempted from taxes and plunder, and were billeted on the country from Allhallow-tide to May, while every chief bard had thirty of inferior note under his orders, and every second-rate bard fifteen.
John of Salisbury, in the 12th century, says, that the great aristocrats of his day imitated !S"ero in their extravagant love of fiddling and singing ; that " they prostituted their favour by bestowing it on minstrels and buffoons ; and that, by a certain foolish and shame- ful munificence, they expended immense sums of mo- ney on their frivolous exhibitions." " The courts of princes," says another contemporary writer, "are filled with crowds of minstrels, who extort from them gold, silver, horses, and vestments, by their flattering songs. I have known some princes who have be- stowed on these minstrels of the Devil, at the verj first word, the most curious garments, beautifully em- broidered with flowers and pictures, which had cost them twenty or thirty marks of silver, and which they had not worn above seven days !"
From the foregoing account, by Salisbury John, the twelfth century must, verily, have been the true golden age for the sons of the lyre ; who were then, it seems, clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day. It is true, they were flatter- ers and parasites, and did "dirty work" for it in those days ; but, at any rate, princes were then more generous to their poet-laureates, and the sackbut and the song were better paid for than ima simple butt of sack.
According to Stowe, the minstrel had still a ready admission into the presence of kings in the 4th cen- tury. Speaking of the celebration of the feast of Pentecost at Westminster, he savs " In the great
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE
hall, when sitting royally at the table, with his peers about him, there entered a woman adorned like a minstrel, sitting on a great horse, trapped as minstrels then used, who rode about the table showing pastime ; and at length came up to the king's table, and laid .before him a letter, and, forthwith turning her horse, Minted every one and departed : when the letter was read, it was found to contain animadversions on the king. The door-keeper, being threatened for admit- ting her, replied, that it was not the custom of the king's palace to deny admission to minstrels, espe- pecially on such high solemnities and feast-days."
In Froissart, too, we may plainly see what neces- sary appendages to greatness the minstrels were es- teemed, and upon what familiar terms they lived with their masters. When the four Irish kings, who had submitted themselves to Richard II. of England, were Bat at table, " on the first dish being served they made their minstrels and principal servants sit beside them, and eat from their plates, and drink from their cups." The kniglit appointed by Richard to attend them having objected to this custom, on another day, " or- dered the tables to be laid out and covered, so that the kings sal at an upper table, the minstrels at a mid- dle one, and the servants lower still. The royal guests looked at each other, and refused to eat, say- ing, that he deprived them of their good old custom in which they had been brought up."
However, in the reign of Edward II., a public edict was issued, putting a check upon this license, and limiting the number of minstrels to four per diem ad- missible to the tables of the great. It seems, too, that about this period the minstrels had sunk into a kind of upper servants of the aristocracy : they wore their lord's livery, and sometimes shaved the crown of their heads like monks.
When war and hunting formed almost the exclu- sive occupation of the great ; when their surplus re- venues could only be employed in supporting idle retainers, and no better means could be devised for passing the long winter evenings than drunkenness and gambling, it may readily be conceived how wel- come these itinerant musicians must have been in baronial halls, and how it must have flattered the pride of our noble ancestors to listen to the eulogy of their own achievements, and the length of their own pedi- grees.
Sir William Temple says, "the great men of the Irish septs, among the many officers of their family, which continued always in the same races, had not only a physician, a huntsman, a smith, and such like, out a poet and a tale-teller. The first recorded and sung the actions of 'their ancestors, and entertained the company at feasts ; the latter amused them with tales when they were melancholy and could not sleep ; and a very gallant gentleman of the north of Ireland lias told me, of his own experience, that in Vis wolf-huntings there, when he used to be abroad in the mountains three or four days together, and lay very ill a-nights, so as he could not well sleep, they would bring him one of these tale-tellers, that when he iay down would begin a story of a king, a giant, a dwarf, or a damsel, and such rambling stuff, and con- tinue it all night long in such an even tone, that you heard it going on whenever you awaked, and believed nothing ony physicians give could have so good and
so innocent an effect to make men sleep, in any paiua or distempers of body or mind."
In the reign of Elizabeth, however, civilization had so far advanced, that the music which had led away the great lords of antiquity no longer availed to de- lude the human understanding, or to prevent it from animadverting on the pernicious effects produced by those who cultivated the tuneful art. Spenser, in his view of the state of Ireland, says, " There is among the Irish a certain kind of people called Bardes, which are to them instead of poets, whose profession is to set forth the praises or dispraises of men in their poems or rithmes ; the which are had in so high re- gard and estimation among them, that none dare din- please them, for fear to run into reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the moulhs of all men. For their verses are taken up with a <_"!- neral applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings by certain other persons whose proper function that is, who also receive for the same great rewards and reputation among them. These Irish Bardes are, for the most part, so far from instructing young men in moral discipline, that themselves do more deserve to be sharply disciplined ; for they sel- dom use to choose unto themselves the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems ; but whomsoever .they find to be most licentious of life, most bold arid law less in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of disobedience and rebel- lious disposition : him they set up and glorifie in their ritlimes ; him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow " The moralizing poet then continues to show the "effect of evil things being decked with the attire of goodly words,"* ou the affections of a young mind, which, as he observes, "cannot rest;" for, "if he be not busied in some goodness, he will find himself such business as shall soon busy all about him. In which, if he shall find any to praise him, and to give him encouragement, as those Bardes do for little reward, or a share of a stolen cow, then waxeth he most insolent, and half mad with the love of himself and his own lewd deeds. And as for words to set forth such lewdness, it is not hanl for diem to give a goodly and painted show thereunto, borrowed even from the praises 'which are proper to virtue itself; as of a most notorious thief and wicked outlaw, which had lived all his life-time of spoils and robberies, one of their Bardes in his praise will say, that he was none of the idle milksops that was brought up to the fire-side ; but that most of his days he spent in arms and valiant enterprises — that he did never eat his meat before he had won it with his sword ; that he lay not all night in slugging in a cabin under his mantle, but used commonly to keep others waking t« defend their lives ; and did light his candle at In* flames of their houses to lead him in the darkness ; that the day was his night, and the night his day ; that he loved not to be long wooing of wenches to yield to him, but, where he came, he took by force the spoil of other men's love, and left but lamentation to their lovers ; that his music was not the harp, nor the lays of love, but the cries of people and the clashing of armour ; and, finally, that he died, not bewailed of many, but made many wail when he died, that dearljr bought his death."
It little occurred to Spenser that, in thus reprobating
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
these poor bards, he was giving an admirable analysis •f the machinery and effects of almost all that poets bare ever done !
In 1563 severe enactments were issued against these
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to 8tone.
The ingenuity with which the above simile is ap- plied, is not more remarkable than the success \vitn
gentlemen, to which was annexed the following — (which 1 he homely image of putting out the bed-candle
" Item, for that those rhymers do, by their ditties and rhymes, made to dyvers lordes and gentlemen in Ire- land, in the commendacwn and highe praise of extor- tion, rebellion, rape, raven, and outhere injustice, en- courage those lordes and gentlemen rather to follow those vice* than to leve them, and for making of such rhyme*, rewards are given by the sdid lordes and gen- tlemen; that for abolishinge of soo heynouse an abuse," etc., etc.
The feudal system, which encouraged the poetical •late of manners, and afforded the minstrels worthy •ubjects for their strains, received a severe blow from the policy pursued by Elizabeth. This was followed up by Cromwell, and consummated by King William, of Orange memory.
More recently a Scotch writer observes, " In Ire- land the harpers, the original composers, and the chief depositories of that music, have, till lately, been uniformly cherished and supported by the nobility and gentry. They endeavoured to outdo one another in playing the airs that were most esteemed, with cor- rectness, and with their proper expression. The taste for that style of performance seems now, how- ever, to be declining. The native harpers are not much encouraged. A number of their airs have come into the hands of foreign musicians, who have at- tempted to fashion them according to the model of the modern music ; and these acts are considered in the country as capital improvements."
We have gone into the above details, not only be- cause they are in themselves interesting and illustra-
before we sleep, is divested of every particle of vul- garity.
In the same way, and with equal facility, the sud- den revival of forgotten feelings, at meeting with friends from whom we have been long separated, is compared to the discovering, by the application of heat, letters written invisibly with sympathetic ink : —
What softcn'd remembrances come o'er the heart
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng. As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the Hume will steal out to the sight; So many a feeling thai long seem'd effaced,
The warmth of a meetin? like this brings to light.
" Rich and Rare," taking music, words and all, is worth an epic poem to the Irish nation, — simple, ten- der, elegant, sublime, it is the very essence of poetry and music ; — there is not one simile or conceit, noi one idle crotchet to be met with throughout.
The musical as well as the poetical taste of th« author is evident in every line, nor is one allowed to shine at the expense of the other. Moore has com posed some beautiful airs, but seems shy of exercising this faculty, dreading, perhaps, that success in that pursuit would detract from his poetical fame. The union of these talents is rare, and some have affirmed that they even exclude one another. When Gretry visited Voltaire at Ferney, the philosopher pnid hua a compliment at the expense of his profession: " Vous etes musicien," said Voltaire, " et vous avez
live of the " Irish Melodies," but because we fully I de 1'esprit: cela est trop rare pour que je ne prenne coincide with the bard of "Childe Harold," that the < pas a vous le plus vif interet." Nature certainly may
lasting celebrity of Moore will be found in his lyrical compositions, with which his name and fame will be inseparably and immortally connected.
be supposed not over-inclined to be prodigal in be- stowing on the same object the several gifts that are peculiarly hers ; but, as far as the assertion rests on
Mr. Moore possesses a singular facility of seizing experience, it is powerfully contradicted by the names and expressing the prevailing association which a ' of Moore and Rousseau.
given air is calculated to inspire in the minds of the The late Mr. Charles Wolfe, having both a literary g-»eatest<number of hearers, and has a very felicitous j and a musical turn, occasion-illy employed himself in talent in making this discovery, even through the en- I adapting words to national melodies, and in writing
velopcs of prejudice or vulgarity. The alchemy by which he is thus accustomed to turn dross into gold is reallj surprising. The air which now seems framed for the sole purpose of giving the highest effect to the refined and elegant ideas contained in the stanzas "Sing, sing— music was given," has for years been known only as attached to the words of" Oh ! whack ! Judy O'I'l.iiia;;;n, etc.," and the words usually sung
characteristic introductions to popular songs. Being fond of "The Last Rose of Summer" (Imsn Mi:i.. No. V.) he composed the following tale for its illus- tration :
" This is the grave of Dermid : — He was the DCS* minstrel among us all, — a youth of romantic genius, and of the most tremulous, and yet the most impetu- ous feeling. He knew all our old national airs, of
to the tune of Cttmilum are of the same low and lu- j every character and description : according as his dicroui description. He * possesses, riso, in a high song was in a lofty or a mournful strain, the village
degree, that remarkable gift of a poetical imagination, which consists in elevating and dignifying the mean- 5«t subject on which it chooses to expatiate :
A* (her, who to their couch at ni«ht Would welcome deep, fir« quench the light — 80 mint the hope* that keep this breast A»-uk«, lie fim-nch'd, e'er it can rect < . cold in y heart mint grow, Unchaojedby either joy 01 woe,
represented a camp or funeral; but if Dormid \MTO in his merry mood, the lads and lasses hurried into a dance, with a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One d;iy our chieftain committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp was in his hand when he heard it: — with all the thoughtlessness and independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he struck the chords that never s-'poke without response, and the detestation became univtr
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
"sal. He was driven from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all his relations, and the maid he loved, attended the minstrel into the wide world. For three years there were no tidings of Dermid ; and the song and the dance were silent ; when one of our lit- tle boys came running in, and told us that he saw our minstrel approaching at a distance. Instantly the whole village was in commotion ; the youths and maidens assembled on the green, and agreed to cele- brate tlie arrival of their poet with a dance; they fixed upon the air he was to play for them ; it was the merriest of his collection ; the ring was formed ; all looked eagerly to the quarter from which he was to arrive, determined to greet their favourite bard with a cheer. But they were checked the instant he ap- peared; he came slowly, and languidly, and loiteringly along ; his countenance had a cold, dim, and careles: aspect, very diflerent from that expressive cheerfulness which marked his features, even in his more melancho- ly moments ; his harp was swinging heavily upon his arm; it seemed a burthen to him; it was much shattered, and some of the strings were broken. He looked at us for a few moments, then, relapsing into vacancy, ad- vanced without quickening his pace, to his accustomed stone, and sate down in silence. After a pause, we ventured to ask him for his friends ; — he first looked up sharp in our faces, next down upon his harp ; then struck a few notes of a wild and desponding melody, which we had never heard before ; but his hand drop- ped, and he did not finish it. — Again we paused : — then knowing well that, if we could give the smallest mirthful impulse to his feelings, his whole soul would soon follow, we asked him for the merry air we had chosen. We were surprised at the readiness with which he seemed to comply ; but it was the same wild and heart-breaking strain he had commenced. In fact, we found that the soul of the minstrel had be- come an entire void, except one solitary ray that vi- brated sluggishly through its very darkest path ; it was like the sea in a dark calm, which you only know to be in motion by the panting which you hear. He had totally forgotten every trace of his former strains, not only those that were more gay and airy, but even those of a more pensive cast ; and he had gotten in their stead that one dreary simple melody ; it was about a Lonely Rose, that had outlived all its com- panions ; this he continued singing and playing from day to day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the whole village : he seemed to perceive it, for he re- tired to the church-yard, and continued repairing thither to sing it to the day of his death. The afflicted constantly resorted there to hear it, and he died sing- ing it to a maid who had lost her lover. The orphans have learnt it, and stili chaunt it over Dermid's grave."
" The Fudge Family in Paris" is a most humorous Work, written partly in the style of "The Twopenny- Post Bag." These poetical epistles remind many persons of the " Bath Guide," but a comparison can hardly be supported; the plan of Mr. Moore's work being less extensive, and the subject more ephemeral. We pity the man, however, who has not felt pleased with this book ; even those who disapprove the au- thor's politics, and his treating Royalty with so little reverence, must be bigoted and loyal to an excess if they deny his wit and humour.
Mr. Moere, in his preface to the " Loves of the D
Angels," states, that he had somewhat hastened his publication, to avoid the disadvantage of having his work appear after his friend Lord Byron's "Heaven and Earth ;" or, as he ingeniously expresses ii, " by an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, to give myself the chance of what astronomers call a ln-!iur<il rising, before the luminary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear." This was an amiable, but by no means a reasonable modesty. The light that ]>l;iys round Mr. Moore's verses, tender, exquisite, and bril- liant, was in no danger of being extinguished even in the sullen glare of Lord Byron's genius. One might as well expect an aurora borealis to be put out by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius* Though both bright stars in the firmament of modern poetry, they were as distant and unljke as Saturn and Mercury ; and though their rising might be at the same time, they never moved in the same orb, nor met or jostled in the wide trackless way of fancy and invention.
Though these two celebrated writers in some measure divided the poetical public between them, yet it was not the same public whose favour they se- verally enjoyed in the highest degree. Though both read and admired in the same extended circle of taste and fashion, each was the favourite of a totally differ- ent set of readers. Thus a lover may pay the same attention to two diflerent women ; but he only means to flirt with the one, while the other is the mistress of his heart. The gay, the fair, the witty, the happy, idolize Mr. Moore's delightful muse, on her pedestal of airy smiles or transient tears. Lord Byron's se- verer verse is enshrined in the breasts of those whoso gaiety has been turned to gall, whose fair exterior haa a canker within — whose mirth has received a rebuke as if it were folly, from whom happiness has fled like a dream ! By comparing the odds upon the known chances of human life, it is no wonder that the ad- mirers of his lordship's works should be more numer- ous than those of h's more agreeable rival. We are not going to speak of any preference we ii»ay have, but we beg leatre to make a distinction. The poetry of Moore is essentially that of fancy, the poetry of Byron that of jxission. If there is passion in the effu- sions of the one, the fancy by which it is expressed predominates over it ; if fancy is called to the aid of the other, it is still subservient to the passion. Lord Byron's jests are downright earnest; Mr. Moore, when he is most serious, seems half in jest. The latter dallies and trifles with his subject, caresses and grows enamoured of it ; the former grasped it eagerly to his bosom, breathed death upon it, and turned from it with loathing or dismay. The fine aroma that ia exhaled from the flowers of poesy, every where lends its perfume to the verse of the bard of Erin. The noble bard (less fortunate in his muse) tried to extract poison from them. If Lord Byron cast his own views or feel- ings upon outward objects (jaundicing the sun,; Mr. Moore seems to exist in the delights, the virgin fancies of nature. He is free of the Rosicrucian society; and in ethereal existence among troops of sylphs and spirits, — in a perpetual vision of wings, flowers, rain- bows, smiles, blushes, tears, and kisses. Every page of his work is a vignette, every line that he writes jlows or sparkles, and it would seem (to quote again the expressive words of Sheridan) "as if his airy pirit, drawn from the sun, continually fluttered with
A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE.
fond aspirations, to regain that native source of light! and wearisome. It is the fault of Mr Wordsworth's and heat." The worst is, our author's mind is too vivid, too active, to suffer a moment's repose. are cloyed with sweetness, and dazzled with splen- dour. Every image must blush celestial rosy red, love's proper hue; — every syllable must breathe a sigh. A sentiment is lost in a simile — the simile is .1. led with an epithet. It is " like morn risen on mid-noon." No eventful story, no powerful contrast no moral, none of the sordid details of human life (all is ethereal ;) none of its sharp calamities, or, if they inevitably occur, his muse throws a soft, glittering veil over them,
Like moonlight on a troubled sea, Brightening the storm it cannot calm.
We do not believe that Mr. Moore ever writes a line that in itself would not pass for poetry, that is not it least a vivid or harmonious common-place. Lord Byron wrote whole pages of sullen, crabbed prose, that, like a long dreary road, however, leads to dole- ful shades or palaces of the blest. In short Mr. Moore's Parnassus is a blooming Eden, and Lord Byron's a rugged wilderness of shame and sorrow. On the tree of knowledge of the first you can see nothing but perpetual flowers and verdure ; in the last you see the naked stem and rough bark ; but it heaves at intervals with inarticulate throes, and you hear the shrieks of a human voice within.
Critically speaking, Mr. Moore's poetry is chargea- ble with two peculiarities : first, the pleasure or interest he conveys to us is almost always derived from the first impressions or physical properties of objects, not from their connexion with passion or circumstances. His lights dazzle the eye, his perfumes soothe the cmcll, his sounds ravish the ear ; but then they do so for and from themselves, and at all times and places equally — for the heart has little to do with it. Hence we observe a kind of fastidious extravagance in Mr. Moore's serious poetry. Each thing must be fine, •oft, exquisite in itself, for it is never set off by reflec- tion or contrast. It glitters to the sense through the atmosphere of indifference. Our indolent luxurious bard does not whet the appetite by setting us to hunt after the game of human passion, and is therefore obliged to hamper us with dainties, seasoned with rich fancy and the sauce piquante of poetic diction. Poetry, in his hands, becomes a kind of cosmetic art — it is th« poetry of the toilet His muse must be as fine a* the Lady of Loretto. Now, this principle of composition leads not only to a defect of dramatic intercut, but also of imagination. For every thing in tins world, the meanest incident or object, may re- ceive a light and an importance from its association with other objects, and with the heart of man ; and the variety thus created is endless as it is striking and I. But if we begin and end in those objects lh.it an- beautiful or dazzling in themselves and at the first blush, we shall soon be confined to a human re- ward of self-pleasing topics, and be both superficial
poetry that he has perversely relied too much (or wholly) on this reaction of the imagination on sub- jects that are petty and repulsive in themselves ; and of Mr. Moore's, that he appeals too exclusively to the flattering support of sense and fancy. Secondly, we have remarked that Mr. Moore hardly ever de scribes entire objects, but abstract qualities of objects It is not a picture that he gives us, but an inventing of beauty. He takes a blush, or a smile, and runs on whole stanzas in ecstatic praise of it, and then diverges to the sound of a voice, and " discourses eloquent music" on the subject ; but it might as well be the light of heaven that he is describing, or the voice of echo — we have no human figure before us, no pal- pable reality answering to any substantive form or nature. Hence we think it may be explained why it is that our author has so little picturesque effect — with such vividness of conception, such insatiable ambition after ornament, and such an inexhaustible and de- lightful play of fancy. Mr. Moore is a colourist in poetry, a musician also, and has a heart full of ten- derness and susceptibility for all that is delightful and amiable in itself, and that does not require the ordeal of suffering, of crime, or'of deep thought, to stamp it with a bold character. In this we conceive consists the charm of his poetry, which all the world feels, but which it is difficult to explain scientifically, and in conformity to transcendanl rules. It has the charm of the softest and most brilliant execution ; there is no wrinkle, no deformity on its smooth and shining sur- face. It has the charm which arises from the con- tinual desire to please, and from the spontaneous sense of pleasure in the author's mind. Without being gross in the smallest degree, it is voluptuous in the highest. It is a sort of sylph-like spiritualized sensuality. So far from being licentious in his Lalla Rookh, Mr. Moore has become moral and sentimental (indeed he was always the last,) and tantalizes his young and fair readers with the glittering shadows and mystic adumbrations of evanescent delights He, in fine, in his courtship of the Muses, resembles those lovers who always say the softest things on all occasions ; who smile with irresistible good humour at their own success ; who banish pain and truth from their thoughts, and who impart the delight they feel in themselves unconsciously to others ! Mr. Moore's poetry is the thornless rose — its touch is velvet, its hue vermilion, and its graceful form is cast in beauty's mould. Lord Byron's,- on the contrary, is a prickly bramble, or sometimes a deadly upas, of form uncouth and uninviting, that has its root in the clefts? of the rock, and its head mocking the skies, that wars with the thunder-cloud and tempest, and round which the loud cataracts roar. We here conclude our Sketch of
Anacreon Miion-,
To whom the Lyre and Laurels have l>--,-n given With all the trophies of triumphant song— lie won Uiim icell, and may he icear Uum l^ngl
TIIE
BSCSGAS
L ROOKH;
AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE.
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 77//S POEJtf IS DEDICATED,
BY HIS VERT GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, May 19, 1817. THOMAS MOORE.
LALLA ROOKH.
IN th* eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, A Walla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal de- scendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favour of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet; and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurting/ebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendour to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, LALLA UooKii1 ; — a Prin- cess described by poets of her time, as more beauti- ful than Lelia, Shrine, Dewilde, or any of those hero- ines whose named and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nup- tials should be celebrated at Cashmere ; where the
as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, — and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept jp the Perpetual Lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take the last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.
Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the Im- perial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendour. The gallant appearance of the Rajas and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's fa- vour, the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles ; — the costly armour of their cavaliers, who vied on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan, in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold ;-^-the glittering of the gilt pine apples on the
young King, as soon as the cares of empire would j tops of the palankeens; — the embroidered tuppings
permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and after a few months' repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia. The day of LALLA ROOKH'S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beau- tiful children went strewing the most delicious flow- en around, as in that Persian festival called the Scat- wing of the Roses2 ; till every part of the city was
1 Tulip Cheek.
2 Gul Roazee.
of the elephants, hearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay, as it were, enshrined, the rose-coloured veils of the Princess's own sump Uious litter, at the front of which a fair young fonalu slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with fea- thers of the Argus pheasant's wing ; and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmcnan maids of honour, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses; — all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fasti dious FADLADKK.N, Great Na/.ir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen inline
MOORE'S WORKS.
diati-ly after the Princess, and considered himself not the teMt important personage of the pageant.
FAI.I.ADKF.N was a judge of every tlnng, from the pencilling of a Circassian's eye-lids to the deepest questions of science and literature; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem ; and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi, " Should the Prince at noon-day say, it is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars." And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a mu- nificent protector, was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of Jaghernaut.
During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOK n, who had passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind and delight her imagina- tion ; and, when at evening, or in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those re- tired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments, sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl ; sometimes under the sacred shade of a Ban- yan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes ; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, as " places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild pea- cocks and turtle doves ;" — she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But LAI. LA ROOKII was young, and the young love variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies and ihe Great Chamberlain,\f ADLADEEN, (the only per- sons, of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who now and then lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra, the fair haired Zal and his mis- tress Rodahver ; not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon. At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the rery tinkling of their golden anklets was an abomi- nation.
But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon- days were beginning to move heavily, when at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by :<>2room was a young poet of Cashmere, much •••d throughout the Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess., that he might help to .!i(tu>-ness of th,. journey by some of. his • oihic rrcitals. A- the mention of a poet i A UI.AIII- C.N tle.-iu.d his c. 'tiu\l eve-brows, and, hav-
ing refreshed his faculties witli a dose of that deh cious opium, which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence.
The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her father's hull, and had conceived from that specimen no very fa- vourable ideas of the Cast, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her ; — she felt inclined how- ever to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about LAI. LA ROOKII'S own age, and graceful as that idol of wo- men, Crishna,' — such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his wor- shippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness ; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply. Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of •studied negligence ; — nor did the exquisite embroi- dery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics ; who, however they might give way to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirits of martyrs in every thing relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery.
For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recita- tion by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar; — such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra — and having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus btgan : —
THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.1
IN that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where, all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowrcts and fruits blush over every stream, And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves, Among MEROu's3 bright palaces and groves ; — There, on that throne, to which the blind belief Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-Chief, The Great MOKAN.VA. O'er his features hung The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight His d:\z7.\\ng brow, till man could bear its light. For, far less luminous, his votaries said Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed O'er MoUMAV cheek, when down the mount he trod. All glowing from the presence of his God !
On either side, with ready hearts and hands, His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ;
1 Tlic Indian Apollo.
2 Khor -if.--.ii ..i^'iiiii-s, in the oM Porsinn language, Pro inrn, or renicm of the sun. Sir W. Junta.
3 One of the Royal cities of Khorassan. 4 Alosns
LALLA ROOKH.
Young tire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, On points of faith, more eloquent than words; And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand Uplifted there, but, at the Chiefs command, Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a death ! In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,1 Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white; Their weapons various ; — some, equipp'd for speed, With javelins of the light Kathaian reed ; Or bows of Buffalo horn, and shining quivers Fill'd with the stems2 that bloom on IRAN'S rivers; While some, for war's more terrible attacks, Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe ; And, as they wave aloft in morning's beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove, when Winter throws O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows.
Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Ilaram's curtain'd galleries rise, Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes, From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below. — What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare To hint that aught but Heav'n hath plac'd you there ? Or that the loves of this light world could bind In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind ? No — wrongful thought ! — cornmission'd from above To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love, (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise) There to recline among Heav'n's native maids, And crown th* Elect with bliss that never fades ! — Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done; And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at BRAHMA'S burning founts/ To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er YEMEN'S mounts ; From PERSIA'S eyes of full and fawn-like ray, To the small, half-shut glances of KATHAY ;* And GEORGIA'S bloom and AZAB'S darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles, All, all are there; — each land its flower hath given, To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven !
But why this pageant now ? this arm'd array ? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turbaii'd heads, of every hue and race, Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, Like tulip-beds, of different shape and dyes, Bending beneath th' invisible West-wind's sighs! What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign, And blood to seal, as genuine and divine, — What dazzling mimicry of God's own power Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour? Not such the pageant now, though not less proud, — Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd, With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape, And fur-bound bonnet of Buchanan shape, So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, Like war's wild planet in a summer's sky ; —
1 Blark was the colour adopted by tlie Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in their garments, tin bans, and standards.
2 I'ichula, nsod anciently for arrows by the IVr-inns.
3 The burning fountains of Brahma near Chmogong, •Jteeincd as ho'y. Turner.
4 CUiaa
That youth to-day, — a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practis'd swords,— Is come to join, all bravery and belief, The creed and standard of the heav'n-sent Chief.
Though few his years, the West already knows Young AZIM'S fame; — beyond th' Olympian snows, Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, O'erwhelrn'd in fight and captive to the Greek,1 lie linger'd there, till peace dissolv'd his chains ; Oh ! who could, ev'n in bondage, tread the plains Of glorious GREECE, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within h^m ? who, with heart and eyei. Could walk where liberty had been, nor see The shining foot-prints of her Deity, Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air Which mutely told her spirit had been there i Not he, that youthful warrior, — no, too well For his soul's quiet ^vork'd th' awakening spell ; And now, returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good, that, vainly grand, Haunt the young heart ; — proud views of human-', mil Of men to Gods exalted and refin'd ; — False views, like that horizon's fair deceit, Where earth and heav'n but seem, alas, to meet ! — Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was rais'd To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz'd On the white flag MOKANNA'S host unfurl'd, Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the Woild,1 At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd Th' inspiring summons ; every chosen blade, That fought beneath that banner's sacred text, Seem'd doubly edg'd, for this world and the next ; And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind, In virtue's cause ; — never was soul inspir'd With livelier trust in what it most desir'd, Than his, th' enthusiast there, wio, kneeling, pale With pious awe, before that Silver Veil, Believes the form, to which he bends his knee, Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free This fetter'd world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again !
Low as young AZJM knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd, With shouts of " AI.I.A !" echoing long and loud ; While high in air, above the Prophet's head, Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN! Then thus he spoke: — "Stranger, though new th«
frame
Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame For many an age,2 in every chance and change Of that existence, through whose varied n.ngi\ — As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand The flying youths transmit their shining brand, —
•cm frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul vapidly passes, till it reach the goal !
" Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits, warm'd IVith duskier lire and for earth's medium fonu'd,
1 In this war of the Caliph Moliadi ngainst the Kmpreia renu : for an ncrnunt of ulnch, see Gibbon, vol. x.
2 'I'lit: trnnsniigration of souls wiu one of his doctrino* ee W Herbelut.
30
MOORE'S WORKS.
That run this course ;— Beings, the most divine,
Thua deign through dark mortality to shine.
Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt,
To which all Heav'n, except the Proud One, knelt ;'
Such the re6n'd Intelligence that glow'd
In MOUSSA'S frame;— and, thence descending, flow'd
Through many a prophet's breast ;— in ISSA" shone,
And in MOHAMMKD burn'd ; till, hastening on,
(As a bright river that, from fall to fall
In many a maze descending, bright through all,
Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,
In one full lake of light it rests at last !)
That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free
From lapse or shadow, centres all in me !"
Again, throughout th' assembly at these words, Thousands of voices rung ; the warrior's swords Were pointed up to heav'n ; a sudden wind In th' open banners play'd, and from behind Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth ;— like those the Houris wave When beckoning to their bowers the' Immortal Brave.
14 But these," pursued the Chief, " are truths sublime, That claim a holier mood and calmer time Than earth allows us now ; — this sword must first The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in Her wakening day-light on a world of sin ! But then, celestial warriors, then, when all Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall ; When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown, The priest his book, the conqueror his wreath, And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze That whole dark pile of human mockeries ; — Then shall the reign of Mind commence on earth, And starting fresh, as from a second birth, Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring, Sh;ill wa'.k transparent, like some holy thing! The^, too, your Prophet from his angel brow Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendours now, And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse, Bask in the glories of this countenance ! 1 For thee, young warrior, welcome ! — thou hast yet Some task to learn, some frailties to forget, Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave ; — But, once my own, mine all till in the grave !" The pomp is at an end, — the crowds are gone — Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like ALLA'S own ! The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, The glittering throne,and Hamm's half-caught glances; The old deep pondering on the promised reign Of peace and truth; and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze A moment on that brow's miraculous bh/.e !
But there was one among the chosen maids Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, —
1 " \nd wln-n we naiil unlo the Angels, Worship Adam, Ifwjr «ll worshipped him except Ebus, (1 ucit'er,) who re- fined." The Koran, chap. ii.
«J«MU.
One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death ; — you saw her pale
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly knowm
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah ZKI.IC A ! there was a time, whrn bliss Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer ' When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days ! when, if he touch'd a flower Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him, till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own, — Thy voice like his, the changes of his face In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice th' aerial sweetness it had brought i Yet now he comes — brighter than even he E'er beam'd before, — but ah ! not bright for thee • No — dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant From th' other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but memory's aching sight : — Sad dreams ! as when the Spirit of our Youth ' Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours, and leads us buck, In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track Of our young life, and points out every ray Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way !
Once happy pair ! — in proud BOKHARA'S groves. Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? Born by that ancient flood,1 which from its spring In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from BUCHARIA'S ruby mines, And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ; — There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn, Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by, With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh And virgin glance of first affection cast Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd ! But war disturb'd this vision — far away From her fond eyes, summon'd to join th' array Of PERSIA'S warriors on the hills of THRACE, The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash ;— • His ZEMCA'S sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, — and love's gentle chains For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM'S plains.
Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away — but, ah ! how cold and dim E'en summer suns, when not beheld with him ! From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came, (Like spirit tongues, muttering the sick man's name
1 The Arnoo, which rises in the Belur Tug, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, uplits into two brunches, one of which falls into the Caspian sea, ana the other into Ami JValir, or the Lake of Eagles.
LALLA ROOKIL
31
Just ere he dies,) — at length those sounds of dread Fell withering on her soul, " AZIM is dead !" Oh gnef, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die; — Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken !
Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such Ev'n reason blighted sunk beneath its touch ; And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose Above the. first dead pressure of its woes. Though health and bloom return'd, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray ; — A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone All stars of heav'n, except the guiding one ! Again she smil'd, nay, much and brightly smil'd, But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild ; And when she sung to her hue's touching strain, 'Twas like the notes, half extacy, half pain, The bulbul1 utters, e'er her soul depart, When, vanquish'd by some minstrel's powerful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her
heart !
Such was the mood in which that mission found Young ZELJCA, — that mission, which around The Eastern world, in every region blest With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest, To grace that galaxy of lips arid eyes, Which the Vpil'd Prophet destin'd for the skies !— And such quick welcome as a spark receives Uropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither' d leaves, Did every taie of tnese enthusiasts find In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once the madd'ning zeal she caught; — Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ; 1'redc-itin'd bride, in heaven's eternal dome, Of some brave youth — ha ! durst they say " of some ?" No — of the one, one only object trac'd In her !reart's core too deep to be efTac'd ; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin'd With ev'ry broken link of her lost mind; Whose iin:iw lives, though Reason's self be wreck'd, Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect !
Alas, poor ZKMCA ! it needed all The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall, To see in that gay Haratn's glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; Or dream that he, — of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim, — shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here! No — had not Reason's light totally set, And left Hire dack, thou had'st an amulet In tin- lov'd image, graven on thy heart, Which would have sav'd thee from the tempter's art, Arid kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, Thai purity, whose fading is love's death ! — But lost, intlam'd, —a restless zeal took place Of the miid virgin' H still and feminine grace; — First of the Prophet's favourites, proudly first IB «cdl and chartrs, — too well th* Impostor nurs'd
1 The Nightingale.
Her soul's delirium, in whose active frame,
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant flame,
He saw more potent sorceries to bind
To his dark yoke u:« spirits of mankind,
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twin'd.
No art was spar'd, no witchery ; — oil the skill
His demons taught him was employ'd to fill
Her mind with gloom and extacy by turns —
That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns;
That extacy, which from the depth of sadness
Glares like the maniac's moon,whose light is madness
'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breath'd around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heav'n, her destin'd sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit's light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should for ever rove Through fields of fragrance by her AZIM'S side, His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! — 'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel-house ; — through all its steams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul Corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud she too can shine ! — And, passing on through upright ranks of dead, Which to the maiden, doubly craz'd by dread, Seem'd,through the bluish death-light round them ctist, To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd — There, in that awful place, when each had quaff" u iVnd pledg'd in silence such a fearful draught, Such — oil ! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies — he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell's own language fram'd, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd, While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever. — She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, " Never never '"
From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given* To him and — she believ'd, lost maid ! — to Heaven \ Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam'd, How proud she stood, when in full Haram nani'd The Priestess of the Faith ! — how flash'd her eyes With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, When round, in trances only less than hers, She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers Well might MOKANNA think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own : — Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away ! Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil'd, The soul was lost ; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across th* uncahn, but beauteous firmament. And then her look — oh! where's the heart so wise, Could unbcwilder'd meet those matchless eyes? ^Juick, restless, strange, but exqjuisite withal, Like those of angels, just before their fall ; Now shadow'd with the shames of earth — now cro* By glimpses of thp heaven her heart had lost ;
MOORE'S WORKS.
In every glance there broke without control, The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, Whets sensibility still wildly playV, Like lightning, round the ruins i. nad made !
And »uch was rjw young ZELICA— «o chang'd From her wh •*, some years since, delighted rang'd The almond groves, that shaJe BOKHARA'S tide, All life and bliss, with Azm by her side ! So alter'd was she now, this festal day, When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, The vision of that Youth, whom she had lov'd, And wept as dead, before her breath'd and mov'd;— Wlirn— bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light — Her beauteous Azm shone before her sight.
Oh Reason ! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhop'd-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, waken'd in the breast By .Memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee ! But, though light came, it came but partially ; Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense Wander'd about, — but not to guide it thence ; Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbour which might save. Hours of delight and peace, Ion;; left behind, With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind ; But oh ! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone ; And, then, her oath — there madness lay again, And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! Yet, one relief this glance of former years Brought, mingled with its pain — tears, floods of tears, long frozen at her heart, but now like rills I-et Jpose in spring-time from the snowy hills, And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost !
Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she, till now, had heard with extacy,) To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream's side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retir'd to pray ; Sometimes alone — but, oftcner far, with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison.
Of late none found rich favour in his sight As the young Priestess ; and though, since that night When the death-caverns echo'd every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, Th* Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize. Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise, And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things, As ev'n across the desperate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, rhrew startling shadows of dismay and doubt ;
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal 'd Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her reveal d, To her alone ; — and then the hope most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth's grosser tire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Ev'n purer than before, — as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to tin
skies —
And that when AZIM'S fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heav'n, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain, But all be bright, be pure, be his again ! — These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet, And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet. But now that Shape which had appall'd her view, That Semblance — oh how terrible, if true ! — Which came across her frenzy's full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift barft, And, startling a!! its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ; — So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, And waking up each long-lull'd image there, But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair!
Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, MOKANNA waited her — too wrapt in dreams
f the fair-ripening future's rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bonne" Came like a spirit's o'er th' unechoing ground, — From that wild ZELICA, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance !
Upon his couch the Veiled MOKANNA lay, While lamps around — not such as lend their ray Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy ROOM,' or MECCA'S dim arcades, — But brilliant, soft, such light as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there Stood vases, fill'd with KISHMEE'S* golden wine, And the red weepings of the SIIIRAZ vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quafTd, Like Z EM 7. EM'S Spring of Holiness,-1 had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower! And still he drank and ponder'd — nor could see Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie ;
1 The cities of Com [or Room] and C'ashan arc full o( i<«'|iiif, maiisul.-uins, and sepulchres of tiie descendant*
of Ali, the Saint* 01' Persia. CJinrdin.
2 An Island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for it* white wine.
3 The miraculous well at Mecca ; to caller!, say* Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.
LALLA ROOKH.
33
At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke I So let him — EBI.IS ! grant this crowning curse,
From EHLIS at the Fall of Man, he spoke: — " Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven ; Go.l's images, forsooth ! — such gods as he Whom I.\I»IA serves, the monkey deity;1 — Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, To whom, if LUCIFER, as grandams say, Refus'd, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light, To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right ! — Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck Of your foul race, and without fear or check, Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, My deep-1'elt, long-riurst loathing of man's name! Soon, at the head of myriads, blind an! fierce As hooded falcons, through the universe I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, Weak miii my instrument, curst man my prey !
" Ye \\ ise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light From dead men's marrow guides them best at night2 — Ye shall liaVe honours — wealth, — yes, sages, yes — I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness ; Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here, flow 1 shall laugh when trumpeted along, In lying speech, and still more lying song, By these lea-u'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, A sceptre's puny point can wield it all !
" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds ; Who, bolder ev'n than NEMROD, think to rise By nonsense heap'd on nonsense to the skies ; Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too, Seen, heard, attested, every thing — but true. Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek One grace of meaning for the things they speak ; Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood For truths too heavenly to be understood ; And your state priests, sole venders of the lore That works salvation ; — as on AvAVshore, Where none but priests are privileg'd to trade In that best marble of which gods are made ;' — They shall have mysteries — aye, precious stuff For knaves to thrive by — mysteries enough ; Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, While craftier feign belief, till they believe. A Ileav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust, — A splendid Paradise — pure souls, ye must : That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, Who finds not heav'ns to suit the tastes of all ; Houns for boys, omniscience for sages, And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. Vain things ! — as lust or vanity inspires, The heav'n of each is bat what each desires, And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be, Man would be man to all eternity !
1 Tne god Hannaman.
2 A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hnnil of Glory, the candle for wliich was made of the fat of a duud malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.
? Kymet's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376.
£
But keep him what he is, no hell were worse." —
" Oh my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said, — MOKANNA started — not abash'd, afraid, — He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! But, in those dismal words that reach' d his ear, " Oh my lost soul !" there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o'er Hell's gate is read, That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him.
" Ha, my fair Priestess !" — thus, with ready wile, Th' impostor turn'd to greet her — " thou, whose sinilo Hath inspiration in its rosy beam Beyond th* enthusiast's hope or prophet's dream ! Light of the Faith ! who twin'st religion's zeal So close with love's, men know not which they feel, Nor which to sigh for in their trance of heart, The Heav'n thou preachest, or the Heav'n thou art! What should I be without thee 1 without thee How dull -were power, how joyless victory ! Though borne by angejs, if that smile of thine Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine. But — why so mournful, child 1 those eyes, that shone All life, last night — what ! — is their glory gone 1 Come, come — this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, They want rekindling — suns themselves would fail, Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, From Light's own fount, supplies of brilliancy ! Thou seest this cup— no juice of earth is here, But the pure waters of that upper sphere, Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go. Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns — Nay, drink — in every drop life's essence burns : 'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light — Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night : There is a youth — why start 1 — thou saw'st him then j Look'd he not nobly 1 such the god-like men Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above ;-*- Though Ae, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, Too rul'd by that cold enemy of bliss The world calls Virtue — we must conquer this — Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ; 'tis not for thee To scan the mazes of Heav'n's mystery. The steel must pass through lire, ere it can yield Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. This very night 1 mean to try the art Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart. All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, Shall tempt the boy ; — young MIRZALA'S blue eye* Whose sleepy lid like snow on violecs lies ; AROUYA'S cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, And lips, that, like the seal of SOLOMON, Have magic in their pressure ; ZEBA'S lute, And LILLA'S dancing feet, that gleam and shoot Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep ! — All shall combine their witching powers to steep My convert's spirit in that softening trance, From which to Heav'n is but the next advance f That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast, On which Religion stamps her image best.
MOORE'S WORKS.
34
Buthemrme, Prices. !-tho«gn each nymph of these Hath aorae peculiar practised power to please, Some glance or step, which, at the inirrorj tned, Fir* charm, beraelf, then all the world bes.de; There rtill wmnt. one to make the victory sure, One, who in every look joins every lure ; Through whom mil beauty's beams concenter d pass, Dazzlmg *nd warm, as through love's burning-glass ; Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, Whose words, ev'n when unmeaning, are ador d, Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, Which our faith takes for granted are dmne . Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, To crown the nch temptations of to-night ; Such the refined enchantress that must be This Hero's vanquisher, — and thou art she .
With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil From whence these words, like south-winds through
a fence
Of Kererah flow'rs, came filled with pestilence :' So boldly utter'd too ! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, And the wretch felt assur'd, that once plung'd in, Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin ! At first, though mute she listen'd, like a dream Seem'd all he «aid ; nor could her mind, whose beam As yet was weak, penetrate half his schente. But when, at length, he utter'd " Thou art she !" AH flash'd at once, and, shrieking piteously, "Oh not for worlds!" she cried— "Great God! to
whom
I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ? Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, My purity, my pride, then come to this, — To live, the wanton of a fiend !. to be The pander of his guilt — oh, infamy ! And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! Others ? — ha ! yes — that youth who came to-day — N<A him I lov'd — not him — oh ! do but say, But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, And J will serve, dark fiend ! Will worship, even thee!'
" Beware, young raving thing ! — in time beware, Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear Ev'n from thy lips. Go— try thy lute, thy voice ; The boy must feel their magic — I rejoice To tee those fires, no matter whence they rise, Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ; And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall
warm,
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, As one warm lovor, full of life and bloom, Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. —
y, no frowning, sweet ! those eyes were made For love, not anger — I must be obey'd."
1 Obey'd !— 'tk well— yes, I deserve it all — On me, on me Heav'n's vengeance cannot fall Too heavily — but AZIM, brave and true, And beautiful — must he be ruin'd too ?
— . p
Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven
A renegade like me from Love and Heaven ?
Like me ?— weak wretch, 1 wrong him— not^likc me ;
No— he's all truth, and strength, and purity '
Fill up your madd'uing hell-cup to the br;m,
Its witchery, fiends, will have po charm for him
Let loose your glowing wantons from their bow era
He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers !
Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign
Pure as when lirst we met, without a stain !
Though, ruin'd— lost— my memory, like a charm
Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm.
Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow
He kiss'd at parting is dishonour'd now —
Ne'er tell him how debas'd, how sunk is she,
Whom once he lov'd— once !— still loves dotingly .
Thou laugh'st, tormentor,— what !— thoul't brand raj
name?
Do, do — in vain— he'll not believe my shame- He thinks me true, that nought beneath God's sky Could tempt or change me, and— so once thought I, But this is past — though worse than death my lot, Than hell— 'tis nothing, while he knows it not. Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till 1 die ; Where none will ask the lost one whence she came But I may fade and fall without a name ! And thou — curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art, Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart, And spread's! it— oh, so quick !— thro' soul and frame With more than demon's art, till I became A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame !
If when I'm gone "
tt Hold, fearless maniac, hold, Nor tempt my rage— by Heav'n, not half so bold The puny bird that dares with teazing hum Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to come.1— And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ?— what, give up all Thy chaste dominions in the Haram hall, Where now to Love, and now to AI.I.A given, Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even As doth MEDINA'S tomb, 'twist hell and heaven ' Thou'lt fly ?— as easily may reptiles run, The gaunt snake once hath fh'd his eyes upon ; As easily, when caught, the prey may be Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from me. *fo, no, 'tis fiVd — let good or ill betide, fhou'rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA'S bride ! Hast thou forgot thy oath ?" —
At this dread word
The maid, whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr'd Through all its depths, and rous'd an anger there, That burst and lighten'd ev'n through her despair!— Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath That spoke that word, and stagger' d, pale as death.
Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers The bridal place — the charnel vault was ours ! Instead of scents and batons, for tlice and me Rose the nch steams of sweet mortality ; — Gay flickering death-lights shone while we were wed, And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead,
1 " It in commonly taid in Pen ia, lhat if a man breathe HI the hot K>uth-winii, which in June or July panes over mat flownr, I the Kenerab,] it will kill him." Tkevrnft.
1 The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hum mine bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, a firmly believed at Java. Xarroic's Cw.*w- CAino.
LALLA ROOKH.
8.1
(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) From reeking shrouds, upon the rite Jook'd out ! That oath thou heardst more lips than thine repeat- That cup — thou shudderest, lady — was it sweet ? That cup we pledg'd, the charnel's choicest wine, I f ath bound thee — aye — body and soul all mine ; Bound thee by chains, that, whether blest or curst "No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! — Hence, woman, to the Ilaram, and look gay, Look wild, look — any thing but sad ; — yet stay — One moment more — from what this night hath pass'd I sec that thou know'st me, know'st me well at last, lla ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thought' st all true And that I love mankind ! — 1 do, I do — As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats Upon the small sweet fry that round him doats; Or as the Nile-hird loves the slime that gives That rank and venomous food on which she lives !' And, now thou see'st my soul's angelic hue, 'Tis time those features were uncurtain'd too; — This brow, whose light — oh, rare celestial light ! Hath been reserv'd to bless thy favour'd sight ! These 'laAling eyes, before whose shrouded might Thou bt seen immortal man kneel down and quake- Would that they were Heaven's lightnings for his sake! But turn and look — then wonder, if thou wilt, That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, I'pon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon earth ; AIM! on that race who, though more vile they be Than mowing apes, are denn-gods to me ! Here, judge, if Hell with all its power to damn, Can add one curse to the foul thing I am !" —
He rais'd his veil — the Maid turn'd slowly round, Look'd at him — shriek'd — and sunk upon the ground.
O\ their arrival, next night, at the place of encamp- ment, they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all round illuminated ; some artists of Yam- k'hrou having been sent on previously for the pur- pose On each side of the green alley, which led to lh«s Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo- work were erected, representing arches, minarets, and ti wers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Can- ton. Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shining in the light of the bamboo scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan.
L.U.I. A ROOKH, however, who was too much occu- pied by the sad story of ZELICA and her lover, to give a though' to any thing else, except, perhaps, him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splen- dour to her pavilion, — greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtclieou, — and was followed with equal rapidity by the great Chamberlain^ cursing, as he wont, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations. Without a moment's delay young FERAMORZ was
1 C'ircnm easdem ripag [Xili, viz.] ales est Ibis. Ea scr- pemium popultitur ova, jfralissimamque ex his nidis escam HUU refwt. — Sulinus.
introduced, and FADLADEEN, who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet, till he knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when LALLA ROOKH impatiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musntid near her, proceeded : —
PREPARE thy soul, young AZIM ! thou hast brav'd The bands of GREECE, still mighty, though enslav'vl, Hast fac'd her phalanx, arm'd with all its fame, Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ; All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brtiw, But a more perilous trial waits thee now, — Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes From every land where woman smiles or siglia , Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azure banner in their blaze; And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash, To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid, Like swords half-sheath d, beneath the downcast lid Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host Now led against thee ; and, let conquerors boast Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.
Now, through the Harem chambers, moving lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites ; — From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill d to wreathe the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, 3 er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, WTho, if between the folds but one eye shone, Like SEBA'S Queen could vanquish with that one • While some bring leaves of Henna to imbue The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,3 So bright, that in the mirror s depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream ; And others mix the Koliol s jetty dye, To give that long, dark languish to the eye,3 iVhich makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cuU ?rom fair CIRCASSIA'S vales, so beautiful.
All is in motion ; rings., and plumes, and pearls \ re shining every where ; — some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads ; jay creatures ! sweet, though mournful 'tis to KCO low each prefers a garland from that tree Vhich brings to mind her childhood s innocent day, Vnd the dear fields and friendships far away. nhe maid of INDIA, blest again to hold n her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold,* "'hinks of the lime, when, by the GANGES' flood, ler little play-mates scatter'd many a bud
1 "Thou haHt ravished my heart with one of thine ey«i.
2 "Thuy tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Hcn- nn, BO that they resembled branches of coral." — Story oj I'rincr Fultvn in Vahardaiivx/i.
3 " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black Cohol." — ftussel,
4 " The appearance of the blossorr* of the gold-coloured Oampac on the black hair of the Indian women, has sup- plied the Sanscrit Poets with many elegant allusions.— Sec .isiatic Researches vol. iv.
MOORE'S WORKS.
Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Juki dripping from the consecrated stream ;
.,e young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain-flowers, as by a spell, — The tweet EJcaya,1 and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy^— Seen call'd up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father's tents; Sighs for the home she lell with little pain, And wishes e'en its sorrows back again !
Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young AZIM roams bewilder'd, — nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here the way leads, o'er tesselated floors, Or mats of CAIRO, through long corridors, Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of TIBET,* send forth odorous light, Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure Spirit to its blest abode ! — And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as th' enamell'd cupola which towers All rich with arabesques of gold and flowers ; And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The spiinkling of that fountain's silver}' dew, Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.
Here KK> he traces the kind