THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779. His father was a grocer and afterward became a barrack-master in the army. The family were Roman Catholics, and in that religion young Moore was educated. He entered Dublin University in 1794, and graduated in 1799.

He had written poetry at the age of fourteen for a Dublin magazine. In school he had been one of the pupils especially relied upon for exhibitions, and when eleven years old he had played in private theatricals. While in college he made his translation of the odes of Anacreon, in competition for a prize, which he did not obtain. He learned Italian from a priest, French from an emigrant, and piano-playing from his sister's teacher. His father had been much excited by the French Revolution, and the young poet was taken to meetings gotten up to express sympathy with it and to agitate questions of Irish politics.

In 1796 he wrote a masque with songs, which was performed in his father's house. On leaving college, he went to London, intending to study law. He carried with him the translation of Anacreon, and by the help of Lord Moira, who had befriended his father, got permission to dedicate it to the Prince of Wales. As the nobility subscribed liberally for the book, and as also it was intrinsically meritorious, its success was assured. All thought of studying law was at once put aside, and Moore became a professional poet.

In 1802 he published, under the pseudonyme of Thomas Little, a volume of poems which were widely read but severely censured for their licentiousness.

In 1803 Lord Moira procured him a government appointment in Bermuda, and he sailed thither, arriving in January, 1804. But he soon grew tired of it, turned over the business to a deputy, travelled in the United States and Canada, and then returned to England. Moore, who had considerable vanity, imagined that he was not treated with sufficient distinction in Washington, and from that and some other triv. ial circumstances took a dislike to our government and gravely predicted its downfall.

In 1806 he published "Odes and Epistles," which Jeffrey criticised severely in the Edin. burgh Review. Moore thereupon challenged him, and a duel ensued; but as the seconds put no bullets in the pistols, no blood was drawn and honor was very cheaply satisfied. Byron made fun of the affair in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," and Moore wrote him a letter demanding an apology, but it failed to reach him until long afterward. It then led to a friendship which was never broken except by death.

In 1807 Moore began the composition of his "Irish Melodies," which were finished in 1834.

| Meanwhile he wrote his "National Airs," "Sacred Songs," and "Legendary Ballads," and in 1813 "The Twopenny Post-Bag," a political satire, of which fourteen editions were sold in a year.

In 1811 he married Miss Bessy Dykes, a young Irish actress, and fixed his residence at Mayfield cottage, near Ashbourne, in Derbyshire. He now set to work to write a long poem, and in 1814 the Messrs. Longmans made a contract to pay him three thousand guineas for it, whatever it might be, and give him his own time to write it. The result was "Lalla Rookh," an Oriental romance, which was finished in 1817. It was received with rapturous applause. But this pecuniary success was more than offset by the absconding of his deputy in Bermuda, leaving Moore liable for a deficit of £6,000.

In 1818 he went to France with Rogers, and wrote "The Fudge Family in Paris," which went through five editions in a fortnight. In 1819 he went to Italy, there writing "Rhymes on the Road." The last of his indebtedness was paid off with the proceeds of his "Loves of the Angels," published in 1823, and he then returned to England and took up his residence in Sloperton cottage, near Bowood, Wiltshire.

In 1825 he published a biography of Sheridan, and in 1827 "The Epicurean," an Oriental romance in prose. Byron had given him, for his own benefit, a manuscript autobiography, stipulating that it should not be published until after his death. He died in 1824, and at the request of his relatives, or rather of Lady Byron's, Moore permitted the manuscript to be destroyed, which was perhaps the worst thing that he ever did, whether we consider the direct loss to literature, the unsavory controversy which an American authoress was pleased to open nearly fifty years later, or simply the act of faithlessness to a dead friend. In 1830 Moore published his own "Life of Lord Byron."

In 1835 he received a pension of £300. In 1841 he published a complete uniform edition of his poetical works. He died on February 25, 1852, having been imbecile for several years from softening of the brain. He had outlived every one of the brilliant galaxy of poets who were his contemporaries and personal friends. Holmes, in one of the finest of his occasional poems, notes this loneliness:

"The bark has sailed the midnight sea,
The sea without a shore,
That waved its parting sign to thee-
A health to thee, Tom Moore!'
And thine, long lingering on the strand,
Its bright-hued streamers furled,
Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,
To seek the silent world."

Moore was the very ideal of a song-writer, and many of his plaintive and pathetic melodies have enjoyed a world-wide popularity. They are unquestionably his best productions.

ALCIPHRON.

LETTER I.

AT ATHENS.

WELL may you wonder at my flight

From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, Is left to grace this world of ours. Well may my comrades, as they roam, On evenings sweet as this, inquire Why I have left that happy home

Where all is found that all desire

And Time hath wings that never tire; Where bliss, in all the countless shapes

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes That woo the traveller's lip, at even; Where Wisdom flings not joy away,As Pallas in the stream, they say, Once flung her flute,-but smiling owns That woman's lip can send forth tones Worth all the music of those spheres So many dream of, but none hears; Where Virtue's self puts on so well Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loth From either nymph apart to dwell,

We finish by embracing both.

Yes, such the place of bliss, I own,
From all whose charms I just have flown;
And ev'n while thus to thee I write,

And by the Nile's dark flood recline,
Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight
Back to those groves and gardens bright,
And often think, by this sweet light,

How lovelily they all must shine; Can see that graceful temple throw

Down the green slope its lengthen'd shade, While, on the marble steps below,

There sits some fair Athenian maid, Over some favourite volume bending; And, by her side, a youthful sage Holds back the ringlets that, descending,

Would else o'ershadow all the page.

But hence such thoughts!-nor let me grieve, O'er scenes of joy that I but leave,

As the bird quits awhile its nest

To come again with livelier zest.

And now to tell thee-what I fear
Thou'lt gravely smile at-why I'm here.
Though through my life's short sunny dream,
I've floated without pain or care,
Like a light leaf, down pleasure's stream,
Caught in each sparkling eddy there;
Though never Mirth awake a strain

That my heart echoed not again;

Yet have I felt, when ev'n most gay,

Sad thoughts-I knew not whence or whySuddenly o'er my spirit fly,

Like clouds, that, ere we've time to say "How bright the sky is!" shade the sky.

How soon that scene, with all its play Of life and gladness, must decay,Those lips I prest, the hands I caughtMyself,-the crowd that mirth had brought Around me,-swept like weeds away!

This thought it was that came to shed

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;
And, close as shade with sunshine, wed
Its sadness with my happiest joys.
Oh, but for this disheart' ning voice
Stealing amid our mirth to say
That all, in which we most rejoice,

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey-
But for this bitter-only this-
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss,
And capable as feels my soul

Of draining to its dregs the whole,

I should turn earth to heav'n, and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity!

Thou know'st that night-the very last
That with my Garden friends I pass'd-
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder's birth,
And all that He in dreams but saw

When he set Pleasure on the throne Of this bright world, and wrote her law

In human hearts, was felt and known Not in unreal dreams, but true, Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew,— By hearts and bosoms, that each felt Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

That night, when all our mirth was o'er
The minstrels silent, and the feet
Of the young maidens heard no more-
So stilly was the time, so sweet,
And such a calm came o'er that scene,
Where life and revel late had been-
Lone as the quiet of some bay,
From which the sea hath ebb'd away-
That still I linger'd, lost in thought,

Gazing upon the stars of night,
Sad and intent, as if I sought

Some mournful secret in their light; And ask'd them, mid that silence, why Man, glorious man, alone must die, While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on through all eternity.

That night-thou haply may'st forget
Its loveliness but 'twas a night
To make earth's meanest slave regret
Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eye
Of Jove himself, while, on the other,

'Mong stars that come out one by one, The young moon-like the Roman mother Among her living jewels-shone.