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THE ART-INDUSTRY FESTIVALS AT CORK.

THE newspapers have been full of reports concerning Ireland; and, almost for the first time in its history, the theme has been one of Peace! An Exhibition of the Works of Irish Industry, and the Natural Productions of Ireland, was opened at Cork on the 10th of June, by the Lord Lieutenant, in a building specially erected for the purpose. The structure is one of very considerable elegance; the collection of objects of manufacture highly important; and the fêtes which accompanied the Inauguration were of a nature more than commonly interesting, as associating all parties in the great triumph which their City had achieved. This Exhibition of art and industry is, then, the first successor of the great gathering of the world's wealth in Hyde Park. It will, no doubt, be followed, in time, and in due course, by all the leading cities of the Kingdom; thus introducing a rational means of enjoyment, and a wholesome stimulus to trade. We therefore look upon the success of this experiment in Cork as an earnest of good to come.

This

We do not intend to enter upon this topic at length, although the "natural capabilities" of Ireland may supply us with a rare theme hereafter; but, in recording the event, we desire to print the Inauguration Ode, written by John Francis Waller, (the "Slingsby" of the Dublin University Magazine,) and composed by R. P. Steward, Mus. Doc. ode was sung by two hundred voices, and its effect was exceedingly grand and effective, in the building, opened for the first time, and for a purpose so entirely good. It is a graceful and vigorous poem-one of the very best of its class which the modern age has produced-doubly beautiful, and doubly welcome, because its theme is so novel, but so truly august.

INAUGURATION ODE

FOR THE

OPENING OF THE NATIONAL EXHIBITION

OF

ARTS, MANUFACTURES, AND MATERIALS,

AT CORK,

On the 10th of June, 1852.

STROPHE a.

Man arise and speed thy mission-
Labour of the brain and brow.
God assigns a high ambition;
Glorify thy Maker now.

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In the vast and mellowed voice Of a Nation's heart, upspringeth, Till with praises heaven ringeth And the Isles rejoice!

STROPHE d.

Honour to the swinking arm,
Glowing brow and earnest heart!
ANTISTROPHE d.

Honour to the potent charm
Wizard Science gives to Art!
EPODE d.

Spirit adorable! whose will doth move
All life to be thy ministrant-
Spirit of Wisdom, Potency, and Love!

To Thee we raise our loftiest chant,
Great primal Mind! great primal Hand!
Artificer of all that Thou hast planned.

The fast foundations of the beauteous world Into the deep dark chaos Thou hast hurled, What time pealed out the grand sidereal song: Thyself invisible serene-alone

Amid the clouds and thunders round thy throne, Thou did'st control each orb that moved along.

And Thou didst breathe into man's lifeless frame The sacred breath of thine Almighty flame, Making thy last, best work-a living soul; Then all the sons of God, in loud acclaim, Shouted for joy Jehovah's holy name,

And to the farthest bounds

Of space, in thunder sounds, Creation's jubilant hymn to God did roll!

Although we do not at present propose to treat this subject-interesting and important as it is-we may avail ourselves of the occasion to make note of the Exhibition as, at this moment, adding to the other motives for visiting Ireland. Under any circumstances, indeed, it is impossible for a tourist in search of enjoyment to visit a country that will repay him so amply. Formerly, a tour to Ireland was a matter that required time: it was costly; a tedious sea-voyage was to be encountered, and there were many difficulties and obstacles in the way. These have all vanished: the journey from London to Dublin involves but twelve

hours; only four and a half of which are on ship-board-or rather on board a large and comfortable steam-packet-where sea-sickness is rarely or never felt in summer weather. The Chester and Holyhead Company have issued tickets which take the traveller all the way, and all over Ireland, for a few pounds: there are railways through the principal districts of Ireland; neither difficulties nor obstacles are to be encountered now; and certainly it is impossible to devise a party of pleasure so comfortable, in all respects, as a visit to Killarney, to the county of Wicklow, to the Giant's Causeway, or even to Connemara, may be to-day.

No country in the world will so largely recompense the Tourist. In Ireland, "the stranger" has been always welcomed-welcomed heartily: whatever quarrels may be going on there, they never affect him; all parties combine to give him pleasure, and keep annoyance from his path. The scenery in no country of Europe is more grand or more beautiful: nowhere is there a people so full of character-so interesting to study, or so agreeable to know; a drive upon "the outside car," through any district, will exhibit much of both, while affording a clear insight into its wildly poetic superstitions, and its mournful history of the past, as exemplified by the ruins ancient castles and venerable abbeysthat are met with upon every road. We repeat, therefore, that while in Ireland, the tourist travels in greater safety than he can do in any other country of Europe-safety from imposition, insult, and annoyance of any kind-nowhere can he be so amply furnished with so many or so varied sources of enjoyment.

We presume, then, to counsel those who are just now considering where they can most pleasantly, and most profitably, spend a month of autumn, to arrange to spend it somewhere IN IRELAND.

THE POETRY OF DAVID MOIR.*

LITERATURE, like life, has its accidents of good and bad fortune, and while the names of some writers are greater than their works, the works of others are greater than their names. To the former class belongs the author of these

"The Poetical Works of David Macbeth MoirDelta. Edited by Thomas Aird, with a Memoir of the Author." 2 vols. Blackwood and Sons.

volumes. The chance which made him the standing poet of Blackwood's Magazine, during the palmy days of its vigorous manhood, gave him a position in the current literature of the day, higher than that of many writers of far superior powers, and which the strength of his own genius would never otherwise have achieved. Some little lustre he may have given to the pages of the dashing and success

ful magazine, but his own name borrowed more from the brilliancy of those with whom it was associated. His graceful verses, poured forth month by month, read with the rapid eye, which glances not too critically over the pages of a periodical,—and forgotten almost as soon as read, habituated the public to the name of "Delta," in connexion with the prevailing power of the popular magazine, and hence his poetry took a rank, in general estimation, less upon its own merits than upon the merits of the medium through which it was presented. That this was so, has been always felt by critical observers of our poetical literature of the last thirty years; but it becomes strikingly apparent, on a perusal of the present selection of the best of Delta's voluminous works. Were his reputation now to make, these volumes would not make it; and the reader of another generation will probably deal with them as we do now with the unread authors of "The British Poets." Something of the repute in which the poet was held was, no doubt, owing to the worth and amiability of the man; and for a time this will give a charm to his poetry in the eyes of those who knew him, however slightly. But all such influences are necessarily short-lived, and they cannot be taken into account in estimating the value of what Delta has contributed to poetical literature, or the position which he is entitled to take upon the muster-roll of the Sons of Song.

It was natural that Moir's biographer, Mr. Aird, should set a higher value upon the productions of his friend than will be accorded by less interested critics. In his case, the personal charm of their author necessarily mingles with the verses themselves, and gives to them a significance and beauty which they cannot have for other eyes. Being himself, moreover, one of "Maga's men," he falls into the mistake of assuming the fact of being a writer in that periodical, as of giving itself the stamp of excellence. In this respect, Mr. Aird might have taken warning by Delta's "Lectures on the Poetical Literature of the Last HalfCentury," where this tendency is carried to an extent that is almost ludicrous. Wilson, Hogg, Lockhart, Aird, and Aytoun are there placed in the front rank with the "dear sons of memory, great heirs of fame;" and the whole poetry and poets of the day are looked at from the Blackwood point of view, and subjected to the Blackwood standard, and condemned or praised according to the poetical creed of that somewhat wayward and dogmatic Aristarch. In like manner, Mr. Aird, looking at his friend's works with the partiality of a brother

contributor, bursts into apostrophes of admiration, in which he is not likely to carry with him the sympathies of those who have not breathed the atmosphere of Christopher North's sanctum. His criticism is consequently the least valuable part of his contributions to the present volumes.

With all Mr. Aird's admiration of his friend's power, however, he has found it necessary to act upon Professor Wilson's judgment, that the selection for these volumes "should be a searching and severe one," excluding "all decidedly inferior matter, and all slight, hasty sketches, with touches of good poetry in them, but yet not poems, properly so called;" and all "poems of tolerable merit, superseded, however, by after poems, finished and fine, which have obviously taken birth and shape from the inferior predecessors." Taking this statement of the principles which have guided the selection, along with the selection itself, the reader cannot but feel, that amid all the verses written by Delta, the proportion of poetry must have been very small indeed, when, after a winnowing of all "decidedly inferior matter," so much should have been left that does not rise above the level of musical common-place. Delta's habits of composition were hasty and desultory. The hours devoted to composition during the best years of life were stolen from sleep, when the fatigues of a country medical practice, occupying from twelve to sixteen hours of every day, must have exhausted both body and brains. He did not pause to correct or condense what was written under circumstances so little favourable to the display of power. Is it then to be wondered at, that the characteristics of these volumes should be a level and far from original turn of thought; versification smooth, but monotonous, and marked by none of that subtle music by which all fine poetry is individualized ; and a strain of feeling genial and pleasing, but rarely deep, and never continuous? Except in one or two instances, arising out of emotions purely personal, the poems in these volumes bear few traces of originality, either in subject or manner. You are continually reminded of something better, which seems to have given both impulse and tone to the writer. An undoubted command of the usual poetical metres, an ear for verse, not "numerous" in its highest sense, but in some degree refined, and an eye for observing the features of nature, are the best qualities of Delta's poetry. Where he wrote from direct observation of particular features of nature, he is generally excellent, as, for example, in the following description of some

of the characteristics of an inclement winter season, in his poem of "The Fowler":

"I do remember me the very time(Though thirty shadowy years have laps'd between) "Tis graven as by the hand of yesterday.

For weeks had rav'd the winds, the angry seas
Howl'd to the darkness, and down-fallen the snows;
The redbreast to the window came for crumbs;
Hunger had to the coleworts driven the hare;
The crow at noontide peck'd the travell'd road;
And the wood-pigeon, timorously bold,
Starv'd from the forest, near'd the homes of man.
It was the dreariest depth of winter-tide,
And on the ocean and its isles were felt
The iron sway of the North; yea, even the fowl-
That through the polar summer months could be
A beauty in Spitzbergen's native isles,
Or on the drifting icebergs seek a home-
Even they had fled, on southern wing, in search
Of less inclement shores."

But where, as is but too often the case, the poet is merely reviving the echoes of another's music, or embodying in respectable verse the feeble impression of what has been said much more vividly before, the habit of the magazine writer, urged not by poetic impulse, but writing for writing's sake, is alone apparent; take, for example, the following verses :

"THE STORMY SEA.

"Ere the twilight bat was flitting,
In the sunset, at her knitting
Sang a lonely maiden, sitting

Underneath her threshold tree;
And, as daylight died before us,
And the vesper star shone o'er us,
Fitful rose her tender chorus-

'Jamie's on the stormy sea!'

"Warmly shone that sunset glowing;

Sweetly breathed the young flowers blowing; Earth, with beauty overflowing,

Seem'd the home of love to be,

As those angel tones ascending,
With the scene and season blending,
Ever had the same low ending-

'Jamie's on the stormy sea!'

"Curfew bells remotely ringing,
Mingled with that sweet voice singing;
And the last red rays seem'd clinging
Lingering to tower and tree:
Nearer as I came, and nearer,
Finer rose the notes, and clearer,
O! 'twas Heaven itself to hear her-
'Jamie's on the stormy sea!'
"Blow, ye west winds! blandly hover
O'er the bark that bears my lover;
Gently blow, and bear him over

To his own dear home and me;
For when night winds bend the willow,
Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow,
Thinking of the foaming billow,

'Jamie's on the stormy sea!' "How could I but list, but linger, To the song, and near the singer, Sweetly wooing Heaven to bring her Jamie from the stormy sea :

And, while yet her lips did name me,
Forth I sprang-my heart o'ercame me-
'Grieve no more, sweet, I am Jamie,

Home returned to love and thee!'"

It is obvious that the suggestion of these lines was taken from the concluding verses of the ballad of "Auld Robin Gray;" but how poor and feeble are they, compared with the direct pathos and concise expression of that ballad!

On the whole, of all Delta's poems, those only are likely to secure a niche for him in the temple of Fame which are based upon his personal experiences, and touch upon those chords common to all who have loved deeply, and lost what they have deeply loved. Here the beautiful nature of the man, simple, affectionate, and earnest, finds expression. Strength of feeling in some measure does the work of genius. His heart overflows in music; and that facile "accomplishment of verse," which was fatal to him when he went in search of a theme, did not interfere with, but aided, while it regulated the utterance of emotions that might otherwise have struggled in vain to shape themselves in language. Of all his poems of this class, the best-and it is one which our readers will thank us for repeating-is his poem on the death of a favourite child, who was self-styled

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