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THIS patriotic poet, one of those very few eminent Irishmen who have not been ashamed of their country, was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1780. At the age of fourteen, he was entered a student of Trinity College, Dublin, and there he was distinguished, not only for his classical attainments, but his excellence in poetical composition. We are told that, even so early as his twelfth year, he conceived the idea of translating the Odes of Anacreon. On the 19th of October, 1799, he entered himself a member of the Middle Temple; and in 1800, before he had completed his twentieth year, he published his long intended translation, or rather paraphrase, of the ancient Greek bard, which was so highly admired, that he was thenceforth called Anacreon Moore. In the following year, he published a volume of amatory poems under the name of Thomas Little; a work, so flagitious on the score of morality, that the public indignation was excited against it to the uttermost. The only apology for the author is, that the work was written during the passion and inexperience of youth; that he was subsequently ashamed of it; and that it was the last, as well as the first, of his trespasses of that nature. During the same year he advertised his Philosophy of Pleasure, but the work was never published.

In 1803, Moore having obtained the appointment of Registrar to the Admiralty at Bermuda, embarked for that island; but he there found the duties of his office so uncongenial to his habits and inclination, that he was glad to transfer them to a deputy, reserving for himself a share of the profits. He not only however derived no emolument from this arrangement, but was subsequently exposed to pecuniary loss on account of his deputy's misconduct. In 1804, Moore returned to England, and resumed his literary avocations, continuing to publish at intervals those works, both in prose and verse, which have raised him to such a height of literary reputation. It was in 1817, that he published his largest poetical work, entitled, Lalla Rookh, in which all his stores of varied knowledge, his richness of fancy, and command of language, are concentrated. Of this delightful work it is difficult to speak, on account of the immense variety of praise that has been heaped upon it. It is enough to observe, that although Orientalism had so frequently formed a favourite topic of English poetry, no author had ever exhibited the East in such an attractive form, and with such gorgeous colouring. The next year saw a very different production from the same pen: this was The Fudge Family in Paris, a collection of letters in verse, abounding with the most pungent and comic political satire. Moore in his youth had probably conceived the idea of rising through court favour, and when he published his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, they were dedicated to the Prince of Wales. But when the prince was king, Moore was a keen oppositionist, an Irish patriot, and a derider of George the Fourth, and all his adherents. In 1823, Moore published his splendid poem, entitled, The Loves of the Angels. It was a curious coincidence that his illustrious friend Lord Byron was at the same period employed in composing The Mystery of Heaven and Earth, which was founded upon the same event.

The chief fault of the poetry of Moore is, its excessive richness, so that his readers are absolutely stifled with perfumes and roses, or thrilled even to sickness with overpowering music. On this account, his short poems are valued the most, because they close when the delight of the reader is at the height. Happily for his fame, he became a national poet; and like the Scottish Burns, he has made his verses imperishable, by identifying them with the beautiful music and patriotic feelings of his native land. It is thus that, as soon as the first notes of an Irish air are sounded, the appropriate stanza of the poet, with all its exquisite pathos of feeling and melody of language, murmurs in our ears, and sinks into our hearts. Indeed, the renown of Moore will finally rest upon his Irish Melodies. His eastern houries and harems, his antediluvian seraphs, and sarcastic sketches of the court of George the Fourth, will be stale a century hence, or perhaps be forgotten in new political themes and poetical associations. But as long as Ireland exists, and wherever an Irishman is found, his national lyrics will continue to be cherished, as the language of a sacred oracie, that consoled them in sorrow, and animated them in joy.

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While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burn'd.
But, too far

Each proud star,

For me to feel its warming flame-
Much more dear

That mild sphere,

Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my ownWhile brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone,

Which bless my home and guide my way!

The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meek,
Illumined all the pale flowers,

Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek.
I said (while

The moon's smile

Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss),
"The moon looks
On many brooks,

The brook can see no moon but this:"
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.

From Irish Melodics.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length, in sadness, said,
"We must seek our fortune on other plains;"
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
"To-night," said the youth, "we 'll shelter there;
The wind blows cold, the hour is late :”-
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

"Now, welcome, lady!" exclaim'd the youth,-
"This castle is thine, and these dark woods all.”
She believed him wild, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!—

And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

From Irish Melodies.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
The night's long hours, still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never—
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

From Irish Melodies.

ROW GENTLY HERE.

Row gently here, my gondolier;
So softly wake the tide,

That not an ear on earth may hear,

But hers to whom we glide.

Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well

As starry eyes to see,

Oh! think what tales 'twould have to tell

Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here, my gondolier;
Hush, hush, for up I go,

To climb yon light balcony's height,
While thou keep'st watch below.

Ah! did we take for heaven above

But half such pains as we

Take day and night for woman's love,

What angels we should be!

From National Airs.

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

Where shall we bury our shame?
Where, in what desolate place,

Hide the last wreck of a name

Broken and stain'd by disgrace? Death may dissever the chain,

Oppression will cease when we're gone;

But the dishonour, the stain,

Die as we may, will live on.

Was it for this we sent out
Liberty's cry from our shore?
Was it for this that her shout

Thrill'd to the world's very core?
Thus to live cowards and slaves-
Oh! ye free hearts that lie dead!
Do you not, e'en in your graves,
Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

From National Airs.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

But who shall see the glorious day
When, throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away
Which hides the nations now?
When earth no more beneath the fear
Of his rebuke shall lie;

When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wiped from every eye!

Then, Judah! thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain;

The days of splendour shall return,

And all be new again.

The fount of life shall then be quaff'd
In peace, by all who come!

And every wind that blows shall waft
Some long-lost exile home!

From Sacred Songs

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