When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle I hailed the eternal God: Yet, Staffa, more I felt His presence in thy cave Than where Iona's cross rose o'er the western wave. Mr. Sotheby's translation of the 'Iliad' was published in 1831, and was generally esteemed spirited and faithful. The Odyssey' he completed in the following year. He died on the 30th of December 1833. The original poetical productions of Mr. Sotheby have not been reprinted; his translations are the chief source of his reputation. Wieland, it is said, was charmed with the genius of his translator; and the rich beauty of diction in the Oberon,' and its facility of versification, notwithstanding the restraints imposed by a difficult measure, were eulogised by the critics. In his tragedies, Mr. Sotheby displays considerable warmth of passion and figurative language, but his plots are ill constructed. Byron said of Mr. Sotheby, that he imitated everybody, and occasionally surpassed his models. Approach of Saul and his Guards against the Philistines Of shaken cymbals cadencing the pace Shrill twang of harps, soothed by melodious chime Of beat on silver bars; and sweet, in pause Of harsher instrument, continuous flow Of breath, through flutes, in symphony with song, Choirs, whose matched voices filled the air afar And ever and anon irregular burst Of loudest acclamation to each host Saul's stately advance proclaimed. Before him youths In robes succinct for swiftness; oft they struck Their staves against the ground, and warned the throng Of size and comeliness above their peers, Pride of their race. Radiant their armour: some All pliant to the litheness of the limb: Some mailed in twisted gold, link within link When act of war the strength of man provoked, In rise and fall. On each left thigh a sword Swurg in the 'broidered baldric; each right hand Grasped a long-shadowing spear. Like them, their chiefs Arrayed; save on their shields of solid ore, And o'er their mail, a robe, Punicean dye, Gracefully played; where the winged shuttle, shot Broidure of many-coloured figures rare. Bright glowed the sun, and bright the burnished mail The noonday beam. Beneath their coming, earth Shone like a sunbeam. O'er his armour flowed With blaze of orient gems; the clasp that bound Sapphire; and o'er his casque where rubies burned, EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. EDWARD HOVELL THURLOW, Lord Thurlow (1781-1829), published several small volumes of poetry: Select Poems' (1821); 'Poems on Several Occasions;' 'Angelica, or the Fate of Proteus; Arcita and Palamon, after Chaucer;' &c. Amidst much affectation and bad taste, there is real poetry in the works of this nobleman. He was a source of ridicule and sarcasm to wits and reviewers-including Moore and Byron-and not undeservedly; yet in pieces like the following, there is a freshness of fancy and feeling, and a richness of expression, that resembles Herrick or Moore: May! queen of blossoms, Shall we charm the hours? Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire, Song to May. Sonnets. Thou hast thy mighty herds, When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tressed; The Summer, the divinest Summer burns, The mavis, and the nightingale, by turns, Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed: Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine. O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild, When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay, Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose, one Charles Lamb, in a communication to the 'London Magazine,' says of Lord Thurlow: A profusion of verbal dainties, with a disproportionate lack of matter and circumstance, is, I think reason of the coldness with which the public has received the poetry of a nobleman now living; which, upon the score of exquisite diction alone, is entitled to something better than neglect. I will venture to copy one of his sonnets in this place, which for quiet sweetness, and unaffected morality, has scarcely its parallel in our language.' To a Bird that haunted the Waters of Lacken in the Winter O melancholy bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay, God has appointed thee the fish thy prey; And given thyself a lesson to the fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.* There need not schools, nor the professor's chair, THOMAS MOORE. A rare union of wit and sensibility, of brilliant fancy and of varied and diligent study, is exemplified in the poetical works of THOMAS MOORE. Mr. Moore was a native of Dublin, born on the 28th of May 1779. He early began to rhyme, and a sonnet to his schoolmaster, Mr. Samuel Whyte, written in his fourteenth year, was published in a Dublin magazine,* to which he contributed other pieces. The parents of our poet were Roman Catholics, a body then proscribed and depressed by penal enactments, and they seem to have been of the number who, to use his own words, hailed the first dazzling outbreak of the French Revolution as a signal to the slave, wherever suffering, that the day of his deliverance was near at hand.' The poet states that in 1792 he was taken by his father to one of the dinners given in honour of that great event, and sat upon the knee of the chairman while the following toast was enthusiastically sent round: 'May the breezes from France fan our Irish Oak into verdure.' Parliament having, in 1793, opened the university to Catholics, young Moore was sent to college, and distinguished himself by his classical acquirements. In 1799, he proceeded to London to study law in the Middle Temple, and publish by subcription a translation of Anacreon. The latter appeared in the following year, dedicated to the Prince of Wales. At a subsequent period Mr. Moore was among the keenest satirists of this prince, for which he has been accused of ingratitude; but he states himself that the whole amount of his obligations to his royal highness was the honour of dining twice at Carlton House, and being admitted to a great fete given by the prince in 1811 on his being made regent. In 1801, Moore ventured on a volume of original verse, put forth under the assumed name of "Thomas Little'-an allusion to his diminutive stature. In these pieces the warmth of the young poet's feelings and imagination led him to trespass on delicacy and decorum. He had the good sense to be ashamed of these amatory juvenilia, and genius enough to redeem the fault. His offence did not stand in the way of his preferment. In 1803 Mr. Moore obtained an official situation at Bermuda, the duties of which were discharged by a deputy; and this subordinate proving unfaithful, the poet suffered pecuniary losses and great embarrassment. Its first effect however, was two volumes of poetry, a series of Odes and Epistles,' published in 1806, and written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe, while the author visited Bermuda. The descriptive sketches in this work are remarkable for their fidelity, no less than their poetical beauty. The style of Moore was now formed, and in all his writings there was nothing finer than the opening epistle to Lord Strangford, written on board ship by moonlight: Mr. Whyte was also the teacher of Sheridan, and it is curious to learn that. after about a year's trial. Sherry was pronounced, both b tutor and parent, to be an incorri gible dunce! At the time.' says Mr. Moore. when I first began to attend his school. Mr. Whyte still continued, to the no small alarm of many parents. to encourage a taste for acting among his pupils. In this line I was long his favourite show-scholar; and among the play-bills introduced in his volume, to illustrate the occasions of his own prologues and epilogues, there is one of a play got up in the year 1790, at Lady Borrowes's private theatre in Dublin. where. among the items of the evening's entertainment, is "An Epilogue, A Squeeze to St. Paul's, Master Moore."'' A Moonlight Scene at Sea. Sweet moon! if, like Crotona's sage, And write my thougnts, my wishes How many a friend, whose careless eye And all my heart and soul would send Pursues the murmurers of the deep, ... And lights them with consoling gleam, I often think, if friends were near, And o'er its calm the vessel glides The slumber of the silent tides ! And, scowling at this heaven of light, Cling darkly round his giant form! The following was also produced during the voyage: Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time; Why should we yet our sail unfurl? Utawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon: Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs! The rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Mr. Moore now became a satirist, attempting first the grave serious style, in which he failed, but succeeding beyond almost any other poet in light satire, verses on the topics of the day, lively and pungent, with abundance of humorous and witty illustration. The man of the world, the scholar, and the poetical artist are happily blended in his satirical productions, with a rich and playful fancy. His Twopenny Postbag,' 'The Fudge Family in Paris, Fables for the Holy Alliance,' and numerous small pieces written for the newspapers, to serve the cause of the Whig or Liberal party, are not excelled in their own peculiar walk by any satirical composition in the language. It is difficult to select a specimen of these; but the following contains a proportion of the wit and poignancy distributed over all. It appeared at a time when an abundance of mawkish reminiscences and memoirs had been showered from the press. |