memoirs to John Murray for 2,000 guineas. It was evidently contemplated both by Byron and by Moore that the memoirs should be published after the death of their author. Yet immediately after that event Moore repaid Murray the 2,000 guineas with interest, and induced him to return the manuscripts, which he at once put in the fire. The only thing we can feel certain of in regard to this strange transaction is that the motive of it must have been honourable both to Moore and to his publisher. Moore, however, did not eventually suffer by it, as he undertook a LIFE OF BYRON (published in 1830), for which Murray paid him 4,000 guineas. About the same year the LIFE OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD and the MEMOIRS OF CAPTAIN ROCK testified to the constant affection for his native land which time and circumstances never weakened. His LIFE OF SHERIDAN had appeared in 1825. During the later years of his life Moore unwisely undertook to write a HISTORY OF IRELAND for Lardner's CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA. The work, for which he eventually discovered himself to be wholly unfitted, spread to four times the bulk originally intended, and his intellect and energy sank under the burden. It turned out to be the solitary failure of an unusually successful literary career. He died in 1852, and was buried at Bromham near Devizes. His wife survived him for a few years, and part of the literary pension of 300/. a year which Moore had enjoyed since 1835 was continued to her for her lifetime.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA

SILENT, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water;
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?

When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS1

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;

Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd.
Thy crown was of briars, while gold her brows adorn'd;
She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains.
Oh foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue —
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!

The peculiar metre of this and the following poem is not uncommon in Gaelic verse: e.g.

Aŋ raib tu 'z an z-Carraiz, nó b-xaca tú féin mo zrád?

Hó a b faca tú zile, finre, 'zur sgéim na mná?

From this source it seems to have found its way into English literature, Shelley used it, dividing the lines differently, and with double rhymes, in the lines written in 1822:

When the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scattered,

The rainbow's glory is fled.

and Swinburne in his SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE:

Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild wayside,
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off bride?

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear!
When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his faults and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree :

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine,

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

AFTER THE BATTLE

NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way
And lightnings show'd the distant hill
Where those who lost, that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost --
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream
And valour's task mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not Nature's bliss:
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

OFT, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me ;
The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

ON MUSIC

WHEN thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love

In days of boyhood meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain,
Wakening thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again.

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of Oriental flowers

Is the grateful breath of song

That once was heard in happier hours; Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath

Music! oh how faint, how weak

Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are e'en more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe and not betray.

ECHO

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, rous'd by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light!