subjects of tenderness and passion, assembles together the most remote and discordant agreements, in a manner of all others the least indicative of true feeling in the poet, and the most destructive of it in his hearers. A good many illustrations of this tendency will occur in the course of the extracts we have afterwards to make. The imitation of Prior's style in one department of Moore's compositions, may be evident, by recurring to the smoothness and colloquial ease of the following song, taken from the writings of his prototype, and which, except for the absence of any very extravagant conceits, we might almost have ascribed to the bard of Erin himself "Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd; Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us ev'n talk a little like folks of this world. "How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. "To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: 'Od's-life! must one swear to the truth of a song? "What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows "The god of us verse-men, (you know, child,) the Sun, " So, when I am weary'd with wandering all day, " Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war; The style, we think, in which Moore most excels, is where simple tenderness of feeling is expressed in the simplest language, without aiming at imagery or ornament. He undoubtedly possesses sensibility, and often succeeds in giving utterance to it in a touching manner; but he is not equally successful where he attempts to combine pathetic with imaginative ideas. It must be observed, with regard to Moore's lyrics, and the circumstance has no doubt greatly contributed to their success, that his peculiar and practical knowledge of music enabled him to adapt them always, with perfect felicity in point of accent and articulation, to the melodies with which they are associated. We shall give two examples of Moore's lighter lyrics, in which we think great facility of expression is united to any thing but facility of thought. "Oh! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, But, between love, and wine, and sleep, That even the time it would take to weep "Reflected bright in this heart of mine, It is certainly not easy to conceive more laborious trifling, or less enlivening mirth, than most of the images in this song. The two last lines are tolerable: but all the rest would have been poor, even as impromptus in a drawing-room, and are insufferable when delivered from the press, as the work, for aught we know, of hours or days of mature meditation. To what persons, we would ask, is such a song as this addressed, either as a topic of persuasion or as a source of pleasure? It is thinking poorly of the sex, to imagine that the most sentimental semstress could be delighted or caught by it, if she understood what it meant. It is an incongruous monster, having no harmony of parts, and altogether false in feeling and taste. With the nonchalance and levity of libertinism in its general tone, it has the stiffness of operose study in its details, and is not calculated to please the gay, while it must be despised by the severe. The next specimen we shall take from the Irish melodies. It is in a different style, and professes to have more seriousness in its merriment. "Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. " Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!" These lines, we presume, were written to advance the cause of Catholic Emancipation; but, although they have some spirit and plausibility, they are not very cogent, and resolve a good deal into a petitio principii. The novel though not striking illustration, of the blue and purple punch glasses, will not appear very convincing, except to those who are already satisfied that differences in religion are equally unimportant as the colour of a drinking-cup-a sentiment which is probably not very prevalent among Protestants, and certainly not more so among Roman Catholics. The last verse, if it proves any thing, either as to public or as to private practice, seems to prove too much; as it establishes not only that different shades of Christian belief are to be overlooked, but that we should without hesitation marry a Mahometan, or choose our public functionaries from the votaries of the vilest idolatry. But it is wrong to try these trifles by any serious or any poetical standard. Let us turn to some more ambitious or more admired samples of Moore's lyrical powers. And first, turning to the Irish melodies. We presume that the "Meeting of the Waters" will be considered a fair specimen of Moore's more serious, though not of his most lofty style. Let us examine it. "There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, "Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene "'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near, "Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, We doubt if there be much poetry here. The first verse is commonplace, and indifferently written. The distinction between a valley and a vale we do not understand. "Feeling and life" need not both be given: either will do. The image which connects the bloom of the valley with the rays of life and feeling, is either unmeaning, or is so obscurely presented to us, as to be no image at all. The first couplet of the second stanza reminds us less of the dreamy loveliness of natural scenery than of a neatly-covered dinner-table, well furnished with champagne and hock glasses: while the exclamation "O no! it was something more exquisite still," might in the same way be best applied to the gastronomic feelings, or is fitter to express the admiration of a cockney than of a poet in the midst of a moun. tain landscape. The third stanza is eminently prosaic. We do not happen to remember a more pedestrian passage in lyric poetry than the line "Who felt how the best charms of nature improve;" nor is our opinion of the poet's powers of wing very much exalted by the little flutter that is attempted in the line that follows. We question if the last stanza is very congruous, as "a bosom of shade," if there be such a thing, is better calculated to protect against a burning sky than against a cold world. The idea with which the song concludes, of hearts mingling like waters, is more of a quibble than of a poetical figure. Our next example, we believe, is equally popular, but does not appear to be much more deserving of praise as a poetical effusion. "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart, "It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, There is a great deal of good feeling in the sentiment of this song; but we desiderate in it any poetical genius, such as the subject is calculated to inspire. The lines are either quite prosaic, unrelieved by any novelty of thought or delicacy of expression; or tricked out with imagery little worthy of the theme which it is employed to adorn. The conclusion of the second stanza is very characteristic of its author, "Around the dear ruin each wish of my heart, Would entwine itself verdantly still." is entirely in that fanciful style, which is calculated to dissipate feeling by calling other and opposite faculties into play. But is the image thus presented to us a correct one? If we understand the poet, he means to represent his mistress as a ruined building, and himself as an ivybush; and it is easy to compare the verdant embraces of the plant to the strong attachments of affections. But we think there is this confusion in the simile, that the ivy's clasp is not appropriately seen until the place becomes a ruin. Round the ruined tower or temple, ivy cannot be said to entwine itself verdantly still. It is only suffered to begin its addresses when the object of them is in ruins. The ivy, therefore, is not a true, any more than it is a natural or a pleasing representation of that love, which first bestows its adoration where there is youth and beauty, and continues faithful and unchanged in declension and decay. The sunflower in the end of the song, is, in its fabulous or fancied properties, a more correct similitude of enduring constancy. But, however appropriate it may be for the device of a valentine or the seal of a billetdoux, we can scarcely conceive a lover of high and heartfelt emotions, descending to picture, by the sunflower and "her god," the fond devotedness of his own noble spirit. The following lines have at least the merit of expressing elegantly and easily ideas, which, though not striking or original, must always be pleasing from their tenderness and beauty. They were written, we believe, as a tribute to the memory of one whose genius and goodness well deserved the praises and the tears of poetry: "I saw thy form in youthful prime, Which fleets not with the breath, Than in thy smile of death, Mary! "As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary! So veil'd beneath the simplest guise, Thy radiant genius shone, And that which charm'd all other eyes, Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary! "If souls could always dwell above, There is some tenderness in reality, and more in appearance, in the lines we have next to quote; but we fear the details will not stand inspection. "Has sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded, That even in sorrow were sweet. Does Time, with his cold wing, wither Each feeling that once was dear ? Come, child of misfortune! hither, I'll weep with thee tear for tear. "Has love to that soul so tender, Allured by the gleam that shone, "Has Hope, like the bird in the story "If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, We like the first verse; and, in particular, the lines that truly and tenderly represent the buoyant joyousness of early life, that even sorrow cannot depress. The ideas in the stanzas that follow, are too curiously wire-drawn to have much power to move us. We may relish a passing allusion to Love's or "Hope's delusive mine;" but a detailed comparison of its disappointments with the failure of mining speculations in Wicklow, is any thing but poetical or pathetic. The second stanza altogether is very poorly and clumsily composed. It seems to run thus:-Has love been like the Lage nian mine, where, if you go below the surface, the bright ore "like love" is gone? The illustration is here illustrated by the original subject. It might have been asked at once with less trouble, has love been like love? The story from the Arabian nights is still more far-fetched, and is not more elevating or affecting. It is the constant recurrence in Moore's poetry of these ingenious, but too remote comparisons, that checks the current of our own feelings, by convincing us that the poet could not himself be much affected by his subject, when he had leisure to look so diligently about him for the images that were to express it. The simile of the Lagenian mines is peculiarly unfortunate, in reminding us of the "sparkles of golden splendour" which so often adorn the surface of the poet's own domain, without ensuring any very profitable result to those who may thence be induced " in pursuit to go deeper." We think there is considerable power in our next example, though the rhythm is not melodious on the reader's lips, and the subject is not developed with all the imagination or the skill which its wild solemnity might admit of. "Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves In far-off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie dead? "It is true! it is true! we are shadows cold and wan; It is true! it is true! all the friends we loved are gone: But oh! thus even in death, Of the fields, and the flowers, in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere condemn'd we go To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow, We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more!" The song which we next insert seems a favourite with the poet's antiSaxon countrymen, who probably rank it on the same level that has been assigned to Bruce's Bannockburn Address in this country. It is not throughout correctly written or powerfully conceived; but it possesses sufficient energy and enthusiasm to operate, we have no doubt, on an Irish mind like a spark upon tinder. "O where's the slave so lowly, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it, To the throne of Him who made it ? |