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

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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-
While nought but joy around me beam'd
So causelessly they've come and flown,
That not of life or earth they seem'd,

But shadows from some world unknown.

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.
Well may my comrades, as they roam,
On evenings sweet as this, inquire
Why I have left that happy home

Where all is found that all desire
And Time hath wings that never tire;
Where bliss, in all the countless shapes

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given,
Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes
That woo the traveller's lip, at even;
Where Wisdom flings not joy away,-
As Pallas in the stream, they say,
Once flung her flute,-but smiling owns
That woman's lip can send forth tones
Worth all the music of those spheres
So many dream of, but none hears;
Where Virtue's self puts on so well
Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loth
From either nymph apart to dwell,

We finish by embracing both.

Yes, such the place of bliss, I own,
From all whose charms I just have flown;
And ev'n while thus to thee I write,

And by the Nile's dark flood recline,
Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight
Back to those groves and gardens bright,
And often think, by this sweet light,

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
Thou'lt gravely smile at-why I'm here.
Though through my life's short sunny dream,
I've floated without pain or care,
Like a light leaf, down pleasure's stream,
Caught in each sparkling eddy there;
Though never Mirth awake a strain

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
O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;
And, close as shade with sunshine, wed
Its sadness with my happiest joys.
Oh, but for this disheart'ning voice
Stealing amid our mirth to say
That all, in which we most rejoice,

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey-
But for this bitter-only this-
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul

Of draining to its dregs the whole,

I should turn earth to heav'n, and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity!

Thou know'st that night-the very last
That with my Garden friends I pass'd-
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder's birth,
And all that He in dreams but saw

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,
The minstrels silent, and the feet
Of the young maidens heard no more--
So stilly was the time, so sweet,
And such a calm came o'er that scene,
Where life and revel late had been-
Lone as the quiet of some bay,
From which the sea hath ebb'd away-
That still I linger'd, lost in thought,
Gazing upon the stars of night,

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
Its loveliness-but 'twas a night
To make earth's meanest slave regret
Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eye
Of Jove himself, while, on the other,

'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,
That weariness which earthly bliss,
However sweet, still leaves behind,
As if to show how earthly 'tis,
Came lulling o'er me, and I laid

My limbs at that fair statue's base-
That miracle, which Art hath made

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
To be transported far away
To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd
One single, melancholy ray,
Throughout that darkness dimly shed
From a small taper in the hand
Of one, who, pale as are the dead,
Before me took his spectral stand,
And said, while awfully a smile

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
Of death upon his features grew-
Like the pale morning, when o'er night
She gains the victory-full of light;
While the small torch he held became
A glory in his hand, whose flame
Brighten'd the desert suddenly,

E'en to the far horizon's line-
About whose level I could see

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,
Though none of all our creedless school
Hath e'er believ'd, or reverenc'd less
The fables of the priest-led fool,
Who tells us of a soul, a mind,
Separate and pure, within us shrin'd,
Which is to live-ah, hope too bright!-
For ever in yon fields of light-
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes

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
Of various atoms-some refined,
Like those that scintillate and play
In the fixed stars,-some, gross as they
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay,-
Who can be sure, but 'tis the best

And brightest atoms of our frame,
Those most akin to stellar flame,
That shine out thus, when we're at rest,-
Ev'n as their kindred stars, whose light
Comes out but in the silent night.
Or is it that there lurks, indeed,
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed,
And that our guardians, from on high,
Come, in that pause from toil and sin,
To put the senses' curtain by,

And on the wakeful soul look in!

Vain thought!-but yet, howe'er it be,
Dreams, more than once have prov'd to me
Oracles, truer far than Oak,

Or Dove, or Tripod ever spoke.

And 'twas the words-thou'lt hear and smile-
The words that phantom seem'd to speak-

66 Go, and beside the sacred Nile
You'll find the Eternal Life you seek,"-
That, haunting me by night, by day,
At length, as with the unseen hand
Of Fate itself, urg'd me away

From Athens to this Holy Land;

Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught,
The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun

Nor

eye hath reach'd-oh blessed thought!May sleep this everlasting one.

Farewell-when to our Garden friends
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends
The gayest of their school thus far,
Wandering beneath Canopus' star,
Tell them that, wander where he will,

Or, howsoe'er they now condemn
His vague and vain pursuit, he still

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-
Glide, with their precious lading to the sea,
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory,
Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains

nights.

Instead of dark dull oracles that speak
From subterranean temples, those I seek

Come from the breathing shrines, where Beauty lives,

And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives.
Instead of honouring Isis in those rites

At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights
Her first young crescent on the holy stream-
When wandering youths and maidens watch her
beam

And number o'er the nights she hath to run,
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.
While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends
A clue into past times, the student bends,
And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread
Back through the shadowy knowledge of the

dead,

The only skill, alas, I yet can claim

Lies in deciphering some new lov'd one's name-
Some gentle missive, hinting time and place,
In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace.

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!
Where mystery, like the veil by Beauty worn,
Hides but to heighten, shades but to adorn;
And that luxurious melancholy, born
Of passion and of genius, sheds a gloom
Making joy holy;-where the bower and tomb
Stand side by side, and Pleasure learns from

Death

The instant value of each moment's breath.
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream
This lovely land now looks!-the glorious stream,
That late, between its banks, was seen to glide
'Mong shrines and marble cities, on each side
Glittering like jewels strung along a chain,
Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain
And valley, like a giant from his bed

Here, where the waters wind into a bay
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way
To Sais or Bubastus, among beds

Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads,
Push their light barks, and there, as in a bower,
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour-
Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat,
That leaf, from which its waters drink so sweet.
While haply, not far off, teneath a bank
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank
Is play'd in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she, whose chain
Around two conquerors of the world was cast,
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

For oh, believe not them, who dare to brand
As poor in charms, the women of this land.
Though,darken'd by that sun, whose spirit flows
Through every vein, and tinges as it goes,
'Tis but th' embrowning of the fruit that tells
How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells,-
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear,
Announcing heav'n in half-caught glimpses there.
And never yet did tell-tale looks set free
The secret of young hearts more tenderly.
Such eyes!-long, shadowy, with that languid
fall

Of the fring'd lids, which may be seen in all
Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays-
Lending such looks as, on their marriage days,
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's
gaze!

Then for their grace-mark but the nymph-like

spread.

While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever bless'd our sphere,
Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes,
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes
Of mighty Gods, and pyramids, whose hour
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make
One theatre of this vast, peopled lake,

Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives.
Here, up the steps of temples from the wave
Ascending, in procession slow and grave,