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critics. In 1800 the Odes appeared, under the patronage of the Prince Regent, to whom Moore had been presented by influential Irish friends with whom the poet's remarkable social gifts had made him popular. Moore's version of the Greek poet, though it had about it much more of Moore than of Anacreon, caught the taste of the day, and his reputation was at once made. At two-and-twenty he had become the fashion in the most exclusive salons of London; he sang, improvised, and chatted with easy gaiety for the amusement of his patrons; and was, as he wrote at this time, 'happy, careless, comical, everything I could wish.' In 1801 he published his first

THOMAS MOORE.

From the Bust (1842) by Christopher Moore, R. H. A., in the National Portrait Gallery.

volume of original poetry, Poems by the late Thomas Little, which were much admired and served to increase his fame, and in which, though the inspiration of his highest poetry was wanting, he displayed a lively fancy, an agreeable sparkle, and a remarkable facility for versification.

In 1803 Moore received, through the patronage of Lord Moira, an Admiralty appointment at Bermuda; but he soon found that the expectation of valuable receipts from prize causes which had been held out to him would not be realised, and in 1804 he returned to England, leaving his duties to the care of a deputy. In 1806 appeared his Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, with a dedication to Lord Moira, his constant friend. The contents of this volume were chiefly written during his absence from Europe, and were much coloured by allusions to America, which Moore had visited on his way home, and of whose institutions he had formed an unfavourable judgment. In his preface he spoke

with unmeasured disapproval of American politics, and of the state of American society, both of which were severely satirised in his Epistles. Unfortunately he said 'just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince;' and his book was in consequence most unfavourably reviewed by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh. The acrimony of the article led to a challenge and a hostile meeting, which happily had none but ludicrous results. Ultimately, through the mediation of Rogers, the critic apologised, and the poet became a regular contributor to the review in which he had been maligned.

The year 1807 witnessed a much more successful literary venture. In conjunction with Sir John Stevenson, who adapted the music of familiar Irish airs, Moore published the first number of his Irish Melodies. With these he at once achieved a popularity which was not confined to the comparatively narrow circle in which he had previously been admired. The Melodies long retained the hold upon the English public which they immediately acquired; with the Irish they have never lost it. National verse wedded to national music, and brightened in every line by the poet's charm and felicity of sentiment and language, the Irish Melodies served to symbolise the national aspirations of Ireland in a form which touched without offending the susceptibilities of the sister people; and Moore displayed in his handling of his theme a tact which was as remarkable as the technical finish of his songs. Though occasionally marred by an excess of epigram which scarcely harmonised with the subjects of his verse, the Melodies as a whole display Moore's lyrical genius at its highest; and the topics to which they relate lent them the dignity which is sometimes wanting in their author's Muse. Few literary enterprises have ever been better remunerated. Moore received a hundred guineas for each song in a series of above one hundred and thirty; but the publication was spread over a period of more than twenty-five years. Akin to the Irish Melodies, but less naturally inspired and on the whole much inferior to them, is the series of National Airs (1815); but the latter contains some of Moore's most characteristic verses, and in particular one of the most familiar of all, the well-known 'Oft, in the Stilly Night.' Sacred Songs (1816), also in the same vein, have little to commend them.

In 1813 Moore, who had previously tried his hand unsuccessfully as a satirist in three ambitious pieces, Corruption, Intolerance, and The Sceptic, a philosophical satire-of which the first dwelt upon the ill effects on Ireland of the Revolution of 1688-fell back on his earlier manner. Adapting to political topics the turn for epigram which had been so marked in his Odes and Epistles, he devoted himself to the congenial task of lampooning the Prince Regent and his circle, to the great delight of the Whig politicians, who felt themselves aggrieved by the desertion of their

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former patron.

Moore contrived to cover the Prince and his Ministers with a ridicule as galling as it was diverting, and his lampoons, republished in The Twopenny Post-Bag (1813), ran rapidly through several editions. Nothing that Moore attempted in his long career better suited his powers than these admirable pasquinades, and in the Fudge Family in Paris (1818), as well as in a series of satirical verses of a similar kindFables for the Holy Alliance; Odes upon Cash, Corn, and Catholics; and Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress-he illustrated still further a talent for political satire which no English writer in the same kind has surpassed or indeed equalled.

Moore was now at the zenith of his fame, and even the splendour of Byron's rising star could not eclipse his extraordinary reputation. With that amazing genius, whose life he was afterwards to write and with whose name his own is so closely associated in so many ways, Moore was already on terms of friendship. The influence of the younger on the elder poet, whose genius was essentially imitative, was plainly shown both in Moore's choice of a subject for his next important performance and in his mode of handling it. Lalla Rookh, commenced in 1815, was published in 1817, and at once led to comparisons not unfavourable to Moore with Byron and Scott, whose metrical methods were followed by the Irish poet. great was the repute of Moore that he received from Longmans for this poem the immense sum of £3000. Moore caught with great felicity the Oriental tone and colouring; and the work, which should never be read apart from its admirable prose setting, is certainly a marvellous metrical tour-de-force. But there is a note of artificiality about the whole, and even the strongest passages of the poem are lacking in sincerity of passion or

emotion.

So

In 1818, owing to defalcations by his deputy at Bermuda, Moore was obliged to seek refuge in Paris from his creditors, and remained abroad for three years. During his absence he wrote The Loves of the Angels, with the exception of Lalla Rookh the longest and most ambitious of his works, but much inferior in quality and treatment to the Oriental tale. As in the case of the earlier work, this poem evinces very markedly the influence of Byron. He also wrote at this period a prose fiction, The Epicurean, published in 1827. For the remaining years of his career Moore's industry was chiefly devoted to prose. In 1824 he wrote the Memoirs of Captain Rock, in which the abuses of the Irish Church establishment were severely satirised, and in 1827 a Life of Sheridan, which showed considerable biographical skill. In 1830 Moore produced in his Life of Byron one of the best-known and most criticised books in the language. No literary contemporary was so well fitted as Moore to be the biographer of his friend, and he had been marked out for the task by Byron's gift of his own Memoirs. His

exercise of a discretion he was entitled to use in destroying a work which, whatever its faults, must have abounded in personal interest, has been much canvassed. It is certain that no one in Moore's position would now act as Moore acted, but not so certain that Moore was not in the right. At any rate it is impossible not to admire his loyalty to a friend's memory and the unselfish spirit which he showed in this action. Moore's biography did much to set Byron right with the public opinion of his contemporaries, and can never be entirely superseded; while his edition of Byron's works has only very recently been displaced as the standard publication.

In 1831 appeared the Life of Lord Edward FitzGerald, a task for which Moore was well qualified ; and in 1834 he returned, in Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion, to the subject he had touched in the Memoirs of Captain Rock. A History of Ireland which he undertook about this time is destitute of merit of any kind; but it was written in ill-health and with declining powers, and is therefore no fair specimen of Moore's capacity in this form of composition. Moore's latter years, from the publication of this work in 1846, were spent in the shadow of continually decreasing health, and from 1849 to his death on the 25th of February 1852 his state was little better than that of Swift's closing years. Despite the liberality with which his work was remunerated— he received, as he states in his Diary, not less than £20,000 for copyright—his circumstances were almost continuously embarrassed; but the friendship of Lord Melbourne alleviated his anxieties by the bestowal in 1835 of a literary pension of £300 a year. To this was added in 1850 a Civil List pension of £100 to Mrs Moore.

It was the fortune of Moore to achieve among his contemporaries a reputation far in excess of that to which his talents entitled him. But the reaction has been equal and opposite; and it has been his fate to be as unduly belittled by posterity as he was once extravagantly belauded. It is easy to institute comparisons with Byron and Scott, or contrasts with Wordsworth and Shelley, which are not to Moore's advantage. But however unfavourable the conclusions which may be drawn by such methods of criticism, they cannot affect the title of the author of such varied work as the Irish Melodies, Lalla Rookh, the Twopenny Post-Bag, and the Life of Byron to be considered as the most versatile writer of a period singularly wealthy in literary merit of every kind. A man who was courted and esteemed by Lord Lansdowne, Mr Canning, Sir Robert Peel, Rogers, Sydney Smith, Sir Walter Scott, and Lord Byron must,' says Lord John Russell, have had social as well as literary merits of no common order.' But in truth the testimony of such men to his poetical ability is even more striking than their tribute to his social worth ; and posterity may not lightly assail a reputation so powerfully guaranteed. Few writers have ever

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succeeded in a greater degree in attracting the admiration of those whose praise is in itself distinction; and though it be true that the homage rendered to Moore by his contemporaries was largely increased by his rare personal charm, the impression he created in the minds of the best judges of his day must not be wholly lost sight of in estimating his position as a poet. His origin considered, the rapidity with which Moore won his way to the affectionate regard of the most distinguished men in English politics and letters is a sufficient proof of Moore's great personal attractiveness; while the fact that he never lost through life the friendships he so easily acquired is the best evidence of the real sincerity and rectitude which formed the basis of a character essentially loving and lovable.

At the Mid Hour of Night.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the region of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such a pleasure to hear!

When our voices, commingling, breathed 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 resigned?

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.

She is far from the Land.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note that he loved awaking--
Ah little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for her love-for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow.

Echo.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh is quite sincere—
And only then-

The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

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 dimmed 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 linked 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.

As Slow our Ship.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When round the bowl, of vanished years

We talk with joyous seemingWith smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us!

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assigned us

To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we 've left behind us.

As travellers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave,

Still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

The Last Rose of Summer.
'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, lone one!
To pine on thy stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

A Vision.

'Up,' said the Spirit, and, ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirled me away
To a limbo, lying—I wist not where—
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmered o'er with a doubtful light,
One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night;
And 'twas crost by many a mazy track,
One didn't know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that's going astray
(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay;

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I looked and I saw a wizard rise,

With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes;

In his aged hand he held a wand,

Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,

And they moved and moved, as he waved it o'er,
But they never got on one inch the more;
And still they kept limping to and fro,
Like Ariels round old Prospero-
And I heard the while that wizard elf
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o'er as many papers he turned

As Hume ere moved for, or Omar burned.
He talked of his Virtue, though some, less nice,
He owned, with a sigh, preferred his Vice-
And he said 'I think,' 'I doubt,' 'I hope;'
Called God to witness, and damned the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn't for the soul of me understand.
Amazed and posed, I was just about

To ask his name, when the screams without,
The merciless clacks of the imps within,
And that conjurer's mutterings, made such a din
That startled I woke-leaped up in my bed-
Found the Spirit, the imps and the conjurer fled,
And blessed my stars, right pleased to see
That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

(From Odes on Cash, Corn, Catholics, &c.)

The Vale of Cashmere.

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
Oh! to see it at sunset-when warm o'er the lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look at her mirror at night ere she goes!--
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half

shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.
Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight-when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet [meet :From the cool, shining walks where the young people Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks; Hills, cupolas, fountains called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his Harem of night flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurled, Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes Sublime from that valley of bliss to the world!

(From 'The Light of the Harem' in Lalla Rookh.)

Namouna, the Enchantress. Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival,

Sits in her own sequestered bower, With no one near to soothe or aid But that inspired and wondrous maid, Namouna, the enchantress-one O'er whom his golden race the sun For unremembered years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than 'tis now. Nay rather, as the west-wind's sigh Freshens the flower it passes by, Time's wing but seemed, in stealing o'er, To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of Namouna's birth.

(From The Light of the Harem' in Lalla Rookh.) The Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore were edited by Lord John Russell, who applied the £3000 paid by Longmans for the copyright to the benefit of Moore's widow. This work, published in 1856, is in many respects most unsatisfactory, but remains the only Memoir of the poet on a large scale. Moore's poetical works were collected and edited by himself in 1842, with autobiographic introductions to the principal pieces.

C. LITTON FALKINER.

James Wills (1790-1868) was the younger son of a Roscommon squire of good estate and of Cornish extraction. He was educated near Dublin, and entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1809. Here he formed one of a brilliant coterie of undergraduates, among whom the best-known name is that of Charles Wolfe the poet. In 1821 he entered at the Middle Temple with the intention of being called to the Bar; but the loss of a considerable fortune through the improvidence of an elder brother left him without the means of pursuing a legal career. He returned to Ireland, and, having married, in 1822 he settled near Dublin. He took orders in the same year, but being for a time without preferment, he devoted himself eagerly to literary pursuits, which were thenceforth the main interest of his life. He became an active contributor, both in prose and verse, to the Dublin University Magazine, Blackwood's Magazine, the Dublin Penny Journal, and other periodicals. Later he was connected with the Irish Quarterly Review. In 1831 he published in Dublin The Disembodied and other Poems, being a collection of poems written during several years ; and in 1835 there appeared the Philosophy of Unbelief, a work which had a wide vogue in its day, and in which the author's strong bent for metaphysical speculation asserted itself. By this time Wills had been nominated to a curacy in Kilkenny, the county in which most of his subsequent life was passed, and in which he held successively two important parishes. But his clerical duties interfered but little with his

literary activity, and in 1839 he published the first volume of an important biographical work, Lives of Illustrious and Distinguished Irishmen, which occupied him for several years. This work was subsequently reissued under the rather misleading title of The Irish Nation. Though scarcely designed on any scientific principle, it was prosecuted with great industry, and is still valuable for its notices of many minor figures in Irish history and literature who are not elsewhere commemorated. Wills's other original contributions to literature include Dramatic Sketches and other Poems (1845), The Idolatress and other Poems (1868), as well as several theological publications. His longer poems give evidence of a strong dramatic instinct, while his shorter pieces are frequently spirited and even powerful, and indicate the striking personality and many-sided sympathies of their author. Wills was the father of the well-known nineteenth-century dramatist, W. G. Wills.

To the Minstrel O'Connellan.
Whenever harp-note ringeth

Ierne's isle around,

Thy hand its sweetness ringeth,
Surpassing mortal sound;
Thy spirit music speaketh

Above the minstrel throng,
And thy rival vainly seeketh
The secret of thy song.

In the castle, in the shieling,
In foreign kingly hall,
Thou art master of each feeling,
And honoured first of all!
Thy wild and wizard finger
Sweepeth chords unknown to art,
And melodies that linger

In the memories of the heart.

Though fairy music slumbers
By forest-glade and hill,
In thy unearthly numbers

Men say 'tis living still!
All its compass of wild sweetness
Thy master-hand obeys,
As its airy, fitful fleetness

O'er harp and heart-string plays.

By thee the thrill of anguish

Is softly lulled to rest; By thee the hopes that languish, Rekindled in the breast. Thy spirit chaseth sorrow

Like morning mists away, And gaily robes to-morrow

In the gladness of thy lay.

Thomas Colley Grattan (1792-1864) was the son of a Dublin solicitor, read law for a time, became a militia officer, lived much in Paris and Brussels, and for a while was consul in Boston, U.S. He commenced his literary career with a poetical romance entitled Philibert (1819). In 1823 appeared his Highways and Byways, picturesque

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