THOMAS MOORE. THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1780. At the age of fourteen he entered the university of his native city, where he took his degree. In 1799, he became a member of the Middle Temple, and was called to the Bar. Before he had completed his twentieth year, he published his Translations of the Odes of Anacreon; and, at once, "became famous." The work was dedicated to the Prince of Wales, and led to an introduction to his royal highness, and a subsequent intimacy of which a variety of anecdotes are related; but that it terminated disadvantageously for both, we have unquestionable proof in the pages of some of the Poet's later writings. In 1803, Mr. Moore obtained an official situation at Bermuda; he filled it but for a short period, and returned to England. In 1806, he published the "Odes and Epistles;" in 1808, "Poems," under the assumed name of Thomas Little; in 1817, "Lalla Rookh;" and in 1823, "The Loves of the Angels." Besides these Poems, Mr. Moore has printed a variety of light political squibs, the value of which naturally ceased with the topics that called them forth. Mr. Moore resides in the vicinity of Bowood, the seat of his friend Lord Lansdowne, near Calne. He has preferred retirement to celebrity -except that which the Muses have so lavishly bestowed upon him; and resists all attempts to allure him into the arena of public life. It will be readily believed that he is the idol of the circle in which he moves. A finer gentleman, in the better sense of the term, is nowhere to be found: his learning is not only extensive, but sound; and he is pre-eminent for those qualities which attract and charm in society. His voice, though not of large compass, is wonderfully sweet and effective, and he is a good musician;-to hear him sing one of his own melodies, is, indeed, a rich treat. In person, he is "Little," and the expression of his countenance is rather joyous than dignified; there is, however, a peculiar kindliness in his look and manner which in no way detracts from the enthusiasm his presence cannot fail to excite. It is scarcely necessary to comment upon the poetry of Thomas Moore. It has been more extensively read than that of any existing author; those who might not have sought it otherwise, have become familiar with it through the medium 10 of the delicious music to which it has been wedded; and it would be difficult to find a single individual in Great Britain unable to repeat some of his verses. No writer, living or dead, has enjoyed a popularity so universal: and if an author's position is to depend on the delight he produces, we must class the author of 'Lalla Rookh," and the "Irish Melodies," as "chiefest of the Bards" of modern times. His poetry, however, is deficient in those higher and more enduring materials which form the ground-work of imperishable fame. Its leading attribute is grace. The Poet rarely attempts, and more rarely succeeds, in fathoming the depths of the human heart, and laying open the rich vein that has been hidden by the dull quarry: he is always brilliant, but seldom powerful; he is an epicurean in poetry, and turns away from all objects which do not yield enjoyment. His fancy is perpetually at play;-things which please the senses are more contemplated than those which excite or control the passions, and while he "Lives in a bright little world of his own," we must not mistake the dazzling and brilliant light which surrounds him, for the animating and invigorating sun. His poetry is exquisitely finished: we never encounter a line or even a word that grates upon the ear; it is "harmony, delicious harmony," unbroken by a single jarring note. We are by no means singular in thinking that the "Irish Melodies" must be considered as the most valuable and enduring of all his works; they "Circle his name with a charm against death;" and as a writer of song he stands without a rival. Mr. Moore found the national music of his country, with very few exceptions, debased by a union with words that were either unseemly or unintelligible. It was, therefore, comparatively lost to the world; and time was rapidly diminishing that which memory alone preserved. The attempt to combine it with appropriate language was commenced in 1807. Its success is almost without parallel in the history of literature. The music of Ireland is now known and appreciated all over the world; and the songs of the Irish Poet wil endure as long as the country, the loves and glories of which they commemorate. 73 ALCIPHRON. LETTER I. Sometimes so vague, so undefin'd Were these strange darkenings of my mind- But shadows from some world unknown. FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON More oft, however, 'twas the thought AT ATHENS. WELL may you wonder at my flight From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, Is left to grace this world of ours. Where all is found that all desire That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, We finish by embracing both. Yes, such the place of bliss, I own, And by the Nile's dark flood recline, How lovelily they all must shine; Can see that graceful temple throw Down the green slope its lengthen'd shade, While, on the marble steps below, There sits some fair Athenian maid, Over some favourite volume bending; And, by her side, a youthful sage Holds back the ringlets that, descending, Would else o'ershadow all the page. But hence such thoughts!-nor let me grieve, O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, As the bird quits awhile its nest To come again with livelier zest. And now to tell thee-what I fear That my heart echoed not again; Yet have I felt, when ev'n most gay, Sad thoughts-I knew not whence or whySuddenly o'er my spirit fly, Like clouds, that, ere we've time to say 'How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. How soon that scene, with all its play Of life and gladness, must decay,Those lips I prest, the hands I caught— Myself,-the crowd that mirth had brought Around me,-swept like weeds away! This thought it was that came to shed Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey- Of draining to its dregs the whole, I should turn earth to heav'n, and be, Thou know'st that night-the very last When he set Pleasure on the throne Of this bright world, and wrote her law In human hearts, was felt and knownNot in unreal dreams, but true, Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew,— By hearts and bosoms, that each felt Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt. That night, when all our mirth was o'er, Sad and intent, as if I sought Some mournful secret in their light; And ask'd them, mid that silence, why Man, glorious man, alone must die, While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on through all eternity. That night-thou haply may'st forget 'Mong stars that come out one by one, The young moon-like the Roman mother Among her living jewels-shone. O that from yonder orbs," I thought, "Pure and eternal as they are, There could to earth some power be brought, Some charm, with their own essence fraught, To make man deathless as a star, And open to his vast desires A course, as boundless and sublime As lies before those comet-fires, That roam and burn throughout all time!" While thoughts like these absorb'd my mind, My limbs at that fair statue's base- Of all the choice of Nature's graceTo which so oft I've knelt and sworn, That, could a living maid like her Unto this wondering world be born, I would, myself, turn worshipper. Sleep came then o'er me-and I seem'd Came o'er the wanness of his cheek"Go, and beside the sacred Nile, You'll find th' Eternal Life you seek." Soon as he spoke these words, the hue E'en to the far horizon's line- Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, As if then freshly o'er them play'd A vernal rainbow's rich cascade, While music was heard every where, Breathing, as 'twere itself the air, And spirits, on whose wings the hue Of heav'n still linger'd, round me flew, Till from all sides such splendors broke, That with the excess of light, I woke! Such was my dream-and, I confess, Of gods are on him-as if, blest And blooming in their own blue skies, Th' eternal gods were not too wise To let weak man disturb their rest! Though thinking of such creeds as thou And all our Garden sages think, Yet is there something, I allow, In dreams like this-a sort of link With worlds unseen, which, from the hour I first could lisp my thoughts till now, Hath master'd me with spell-like power. And who can tell, as we're combin'd And brightest atoms of our frame, And on the wakeful soul look in! Vain thought!-but yet, howe'er it be, Or Dove, or Tripod ever spoke. And 'twas the words-thou'lt hear and smile- 66 Go, and beside the sacred Nile From Athens to this Holy Land; Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught, Nor eye hath reach'd-oh blessed thought!May sleep this everlasting one. Farewell-when to our Garden friends Or, howsoe'er they now condemn Is worthy of the School and them ;Still, all their own,-nor e'er forgets, Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue Th' Eternal Light which never sets, The many meteor joys that do, But seeks them, hails them with delight Where'er they meet his longing sight. And, if his life must wane away, Like other lives, at least the day, The hour it lasts shall, like a fire With incense fed, in sweets expire. LETTER II. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. Memphis. 'Tis true, alas-the mysteries and the lore I came to study on this wondrous shore, Are all forgotten in the new delights, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; While there, rich barks-fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts- The strange, wild joys that fill my days and Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. nights. Instead of dark dull oracles that speak Come from the breathing shrines, where Beauty lives, And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights And number o'er the nights she hath to run, dead, The only skill, alas, I yet can claim Lies in deciphering some new lov'd one's name- And where-oh where's the heart that could withstand, Th' unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurl'd, And Love hath temples ancient as the world! Death The instant value of each moment's breath. Here, where the waters wind into a bay Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads, For oh, believe not them, who dare to brand Of the fring'd lids, which may be seen in all Then for their grace-mark but the nymph-like Rising with outstretch'd limbs, hath grandly Yet are there times, though brief, I own, their spread. While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives |