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, Lallah 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 lure 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 no where 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 on 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 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 "Lallah 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 controul 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 will endure as long as the country,-the loves and glories of which they commemorate. THEY say that Love had once a book 'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line, Or thought profane, should enter there. And sweetly did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still More bright than that she turn'd before! F Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, And trembling close what Hope began. A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief, Which Love had still to smooth again! But, oh, there was a blooming boy, And Pleasure was this spirit's name, And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book! For still she saw his playful fingers And so it chanced, one luckless night O'er the dear book so pure, so white, In vain he sought, with eager lip, Oh, it would make you weep, to see And Fancy's emblems lost their glow, At length the urchin Pleasure fled, The index now alone remains, Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure! And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, I know not if this tale be true, But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you, Since Love and you are near related! I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime, As streams that run o'er golden mines, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise, And that which charm'd all other eyes, If souls could always dwell above, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! To live with them is far less sweet I SAW FROM THE BEACH. I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,— Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known: Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone! Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ;Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul-like the wood that grows precious in burningGave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame! THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. |