The Lyrics of Ireland

Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, enters into one of his subtle searches after the source of an idea, and he says, speaking of the lines above, "There is in the second stanza here a close resemblance to one of the madrigals of Montreuil, a French poet, to whom Sir John Moore was indebted for the point of his well known verses, "If in that breast so good so pure."

"The grief that on my quiet preys,

That rends my heart and checks my tongue,

I fear will last me all my days,

And feel it will not last me long."

It is thus in Montreuil

"C'est un mal que jaurai tout le tems de ma vie ;
Mais je ne l'aurai pas long-tems."

Moore thus proceeds-"Mr. Sheridan, however, knew nothing of French, and neglected every opportunity of learning it, till, by a very natural process, his ignorance of the language grew into a hatred of it. Besides we have the immediate source from which he derived the thought of this stanza, in one of the essays of Hume, who being a reader of foreign literature, most probably found it in Montreuil-or in an Italian song of Menage, from which Montreuil who was accustomed to such thefts probably stole it."

What an amusing literary "detective" we have here; what an exposé of picking and stealing. Sir John Moore and Hume suspected of filching from Montreuil; Montreuil from Menage;-and, finally, Sheridan from Hume-as thus, according to his biographer, the passage in Hume (which Sheridan has done little more than versify) is as follows:"Why so often ask me, How long my love shall yet endure? Alas my Cœlia, can I resolve the question? Do I know how long my life shall yet endure ?"- Moore's Life of Sheridan, vol. i. p. 52, 2nd Ed. 8vo.

AH! CRUEL MAID.

SHERIDAN.

Ан, cruel maid, how hast thou chang'd
The temper of: my mind!

My heart, by thee from love estrang'd,
Becomes, like thee, unkind.

By fortune favoured, clear in fame,
I once ambitious was;

And friends I had, who fanned the flame,"
And gave my youth applause.

But now, my weakness all accuse,
Yet vain their taunts on me;
Friends, fortune, fame itself, I'd lose,
To gain one smile from thee.

And only thou should not despise
My weakness, or my woe;
If I am mad in others eyes,

'Tis thou hast made me so.

But days, like this, with doubting curst,
I will not long endure-

Am I disdained-I know the worst,
And likewise know my cure.

If false, her vows she dare renounce,
That instant ends my pain;

For, oh! the heart must break at once,

That cannot hate again.

Moore, in his life of Sheridan, says, this song, " for deep impassioned feeling and natural eloquence, has not, perhaps, its rival through the whole range of lyric poetry."

Now, as Moore, in several places notices Sheridan's plagiarisms, as in the foregoing song, "Dry be that tear" for example, and as the Muses delight in retributive justice, it is only fair to show that Moore himself was sometimes indebted to Sheridan for an idea, as in the following song for instance.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

MOORE.

Joys that pass away like this,
Alas! are purchas'd dear,

If every beam of bliss

Is followed by a tear!

Fare thee well, oh! fare thee well!
Soon, too soon, thou'st broke the spell;
Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art
Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.

Once when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone;
But now that lustre flies,

For truth alas! is gone!

Fare thee well! oh! fare thee well!
How I've lov'd, my hate shall tell ;
Oh! how lorn, how lost would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceiv'd in love,

He could not fly to hate.

The four last lines of this song are clearly a plagiarism from the concluding verse of the song above, "Ah, Cruel Maid ;"-the only difference being that Sheridan's idea, which overflows with love, Moore has disfigured by bitterness.

GEORGE COLMAN, the younger. Born 1762, died 1836.

AH! the moment was sad when my love and I parted— Savourneen deelish Eileen oge !*

As I kissed off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted!—
Savourneen deelish Eileen oge.

Wan was her cheek which hung on my shoulder-
Damp was her hand, no marble was colder,
I felt that again I should never behold her.