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MOORE'S Lake of the Dismal Swamp, written at Norfolk, in Virginia, is founded on the following legend:-" A young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses :"

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"They made her a grave too cold and ua......

For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of Death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds-
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eye-lids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,

And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played,-
"Welcome!" he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from shore;
Far, far he followed the meteor-spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true

Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

"Anacreon Moore," as the author of the Irish Melodies has been called, like Byron, was a poet of passion, rather than of profound thought. His imagery, dazzling and gorgeous with Oriental splendour, as well as the rich melody of his verse, combine to render the Lalla Rookh and Loves of the Angels works of rare fascination. They may be said to be fragrant with Oriental odours. Moore wrote the former in his cottage, near Dove-dale; here he also composed many of his lyrics.

He received for his Lalla Rookh three thousand guineas; the copyright of his several poems produced to him over thirty thousand pounds. Here is a passage from the work last named :—

False flew the shaft, though pointed well:
The tyrant lived, the hero fell!

Yet marked the Peri where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last

Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before its free-born spirit fled.

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light:

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