of the old man, stooping considerably, and being continually obliged to apply to Mrs. Moore to aid his recollection. This loss of memory was, in effect, a signal blessing, bestowing a calm on his closing period, which otherwise could not have existed. "His last days," says Lord John Russell, were peaceful and happy: his domestic sorrows, his literary triumphs, seem to have faded away alike into a calm repose. He retained to his last moments a pious submission to God, and a grateful sense of the kindness of her whose tender office it was to watch over his decline." He died at Sloperton cottage on the 26th of February, 1852, aged seventy-two years and nine months; and was buried in the churchyard of Bromham, within view of his own house, and by the side of two of his children. In reviewing the life of the poet, we cannot help feeling regret that so much of it should have been wasted in the empty glare of mere fashionable society. We do not mean the select and intelligent society of the Russells, Lansdownes, and Hollands, but in the mob of mere titled people, who used him in the same capacity as great people used their clever jesters of old-to amuse them. Yet, so absurdly proud was Moore of his perpetual fluttering, singing, and collecting stale witticisms in these tinsel circles, that he looked with the profoundest contempt on men of the highest talents, whom he never met there. Several entries in his Diary of this kind are absolutely pitiable. At Dr. Bowring's he says he met many first-rate literati, not one of whom he knew by name; and was greatly surprised to meet so great a man as Washington Irving there, with whom he made a speedy escape. At Martin's, the painter's, he found himself, also, to his infinite disgust, amongst a host of small literati. In such houses as those of Sir John Bowring and John Martin, the vain little poet might, we are satisfied, have found much more taste and intelligence than in far more pretending quarters, had he condescended to put it to the proof. But it is as useless to wish Moore anything but what he was, as to wish a butterfly a bee, or that a moth should not fly into a candle. It was his nature; and the pleasure of being caressed, flattered, and admired by titled people must be purchased at any cost. Neither poverty nor sorrow could restrain him from this dear enjoyment. We find him at one moment overwhelmed by some death or distress amongst his nearest relatives, or in the very bosom of his family. News arrives that a son is ill in a far-off land, or a daughter is dead at home. In the very next entry in his Diary he has rushed away with his grief into some fashionable concert, where he sings, and breaks down in tears. He goes into the charmed, glittering ring to forget his trouble, and leaves poor, desolate Mrs. Moore solitarily at home to remember it. And yet, this strange little fairy was a most affectionate husband, son, and brother. We find him and his wife at one time staying at Lord Moira's for a week beyond the time that they should have left, because they had not money enough to give to the servants. At another time you find him invited to dine with some great people, but he has not a penny in his pocket; Bessy, however, has scraped together a pound or two out of the housekeeping cash, and lets him have it, and he is off. Thus night after night, season after season, he is the flattered and laughing centre of the most brilliant circles of lords and ladies, while he and his wife in the daytime are at their wits' end to find the means of meeting the demands of their humble ménage. He is joking and carolling like a lark, while his thoughts are at every pause running on how that confounded bill is to be taken up. All the time his wife is sitting solitarily at home pondering on the same thing, and cannot call on her friends because it would necessitate the hire of a coach. 66 And What is the motive which induced the great people to have him amongst them? It was what the Duke and Duchess of Bedford candidly confessed when they said— "They wished they had some one like Mr. Moore, to be agreeable when they got to their inn in the evening." what were the agreeable man's own feelings in this life? Never did I lead such an unquiet life; Bessy ill, my Jane uncomfortable; anxious to employ myself in the midst of distractions, and full of remorse in the utmost of my gaiety." What a costly price for the gratification of vanity! It is curious, amid these perpetual distractions of gaiety without, and of gloom within, these perpetual sacrifices of his time to the frivolities of fashionable life, to see what an amount of labour he achieved, a great deal of it, indeed, such as he only performed for daily bread, and which added nothing to his real fame. The best parts of his character were his affection for his parents, his wife and children, and the spirit of liberty which distinguished him for the greater portion of his life, though this became so lamentably deteriorated by his mingling with the aristocracy that he cordially hated the Reform Bill, though it was the favourite object of his best friends, Lord John Russell, Lords Lansdowne and Holland. The best part of his genius is to be found in his "Irish Melodies," and his "Lalla Rookh," the latter of which, though not attractive to a grave and lofty taste, will always charm those of an Eastern and rather flowery imagination. The list of his works from first to last, is quite enormous. The Odes of Anacreon translated. A Candid Appeal to Public Confidence, or Considerations on the Dangers of the Present Crisis, 1803. Corruption and Intolerance, two poems. Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, 1806. Little's Poems, 1808. A Letter to the Roman Catholics of Dublin, 1810. M.P., or the Blue Stocking; a comic opera, in three acts, performed at the Lyceum, 1811. Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post Bag, by Thomas Browne the Younger, 1812: this has gone through upwards of fourteen editions. Irish Melodies. Arthur Murphy's Translation of Sallust completed. The Sceptic, a philosophical Satire. Lalla Rookh, 1817. The Fudge Family in Paris, 1818. Ballads, Songs, &c. Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress, in verse. Trifles reprinted in verse. Loves of the Angels. Rhymes on the Road. Miscellaneous Poems by Members of the Pococurante Society. Fables for the Holy Alliance. Ballads, Songs, Miscellaneous Poems, &c. Memoirs of Captain Rock. Life of Sheridan. The Epicurean. Odes on Cash, Corn, Catholics, &c. Evenings in Greece. Life and Letters of Lord Byron, in 17 vols. History of Ireland, &c., &c., &c. MOORE'S POETICAL WORKS. ODES OF ANACREON. ODE I. I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure. I took the braid of wanton twine, It breathed of him, and blush'd with wine! And ah! I feel its magic now! I feel that e'en his garland's touch ODE II. GIVE me the harp of epic song, B |