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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.

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THEY say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'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!

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Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again!

But, oh, there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more!

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
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;
And well she knew the stain that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanced, one luckless night
He let his honey goblet fall

O'er the dear book so pure, so white,
And sullied lines, and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip,
The honey from the leaf to drink,
For still the more the boy would sip,
The deeper still the blot would sink !

Oh, it would make you weep, to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page, where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately traced!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?)
And Love, while many a tear he shed,
In blushes flung the book away!

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,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages, now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded!

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,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on;

I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,—
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone!

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,
That chase one another, like waves of the deep,—·
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep.

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