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Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die :
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !


Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine ? Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.



(THOMAS MOORE, is the son of a tradesman at Dublin, and was born on the 28th day of May, 1780. In his youth he evinced so much talent, that his father determined to give him a university education, and he entered a student of Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of fourteen. Before he had completed the twentieth year of his age, he published the translation of the “ Odes of Anacreon," and has ever since been designated by the appellation of Anacreon Moore. In 1817, he published the celebrated poem of “Lalla Rookh,” which brought him increased reputation as a poet, and he became introduced to the best circles, and was acknowledged one of the first social wits of the day. In the same year, he published the “Fudge Family at Paris ;" the materials for which he collected during a short visit to that city. In the following year, he went to Ireland, on which occasion a dinner was given him, and here the Poet took an opportunity of publicly declaring his sentiments both political and national. After composing some very beautiful words to the national melodies of Ireland, and also to the national music of other nations, Mr. Moore published the “Loves of the Angels," a beautiful poem, which if possible, obtained for him a higher reputation than any he had before acquired, as it breathes, throughout, a more pure and chastened spirit. Mr. Moore was the personal friend of Lord Byron, who entrusted to him the MSS. copy of his memoirs, written by himself, to be published after his death, but he was prevailed upon to suppress it, that he might throw a veil over the licentiousness of an age, which the brother poets had not a little pandered to by their writings.

The distinguishing character of the poetry of Thomas Moore, is that of intellectualized sensuality. He is not like Wordsworth, or Coleridge, the poet's poet, nor like Byron, the poet of passion and of strong emotion. He may be designated the poet of the animal feelings, and it has been his aim to give the grosser particles of our common nature, a beauty and a charm such as ought to belong to purity and virtue alone. For this purpose he has endeavoured to entangle the better affections, such as friendship, love, and even religion; and by a sophistry well calculated like that of Lord Byron, to ensnare warm hearts, and weak intellects, together with the exquisite melody and beauty of his verse, he has succeeded in giving a laxity to morals, and producing in his admirers a fantastic sentimentality instead of principle and virtue. His Poetry critically considered, although it may have to deal with the gorgeousness and voluptuousness of oriental romance, while it is glittering, is nevertheless cold. Like a March sun, it seems to sparkle on the bosom of the stream without penetrating its depths. The passion of Love is his principal theme, and he describes all the devotion that its martyrs so frequently exhibit, with great beauty and even pathos. But we are rather dazzled by the brilliancy of the verse, than deeply impressed with the sentiments embodied. He exhibits woman as heroic and devoted to her passion, but rarely exemplifying that high principle of soul, which is her distinguishing and glorious attribute. The passion of love which when sanctified by high and holy motives, is perhaps the greatest of our social blessings, is embellished with the tawdry sentimentality of butterfly conceptions, and more resembles some of those painted monuments of the Elizabethan period, than the pure and classical marbles of the antique. He throws round "life's morning, and “the young

heart's dawn,” flowers of every tint, and wreathes his characters with gems, pearls, and blossoms, that entrance the beholder ; but these beauties when examined are found to be of fading materials. The gems with which they are bedizened are discovered to be manufactured articles, and the flowers are most of them artificial.

There is, however, in true poetry, and in the breathings of genuine poesy, a something that reveals that undying germ of our existence, whose future destiny is the perfection of intellectual and moral beauty, and however the grosser passions may obscure, or the evil principles of our nature endeavour to extinguish, yet that sparkle of Divinity will burst through the glooms by which it is surrounded, and like a pure flame, show that its tendency is upwards, giving high evidence of immortality. The poetry, both of Moore and Byron, contains passages which are calculated to raise man in the scale of being, and to develope in him, noble feelings and generous sentiments, echoes which answer to those aspirations of the spirit, which continually repeat, whence comest thou ? and whither tendest thou ?]


“Oh! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee,
And, whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There, drink my tears, while yet they fall, -
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And, well thou know'st I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face-
Am I not thine--thy own lov'd bride-
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side!
Think'st thou that she, whose only light
In this dim world from thee hath shone,
Could bear the long, the cheerless night,
That must be hers, when thou art gone ?
That I can live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself? No, no-
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before like thee I fade and burn;
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there!"
She fails-she sinks—as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern-damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes !
One struggle—and his pain is past.


Oh what a pure and sacred thing
Is Beauty, curtained from the sight
Of the gross world, illumining
One only mansion with her light!
Unseen by man's disturbing eye,
The flower that blooms beneath the sea,
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie
Hid in more chaste obscurity !
So Hinda, have thy face and mind,
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd.
And oh, what transport for a lover
To lift the veil that shades them o'er !-
Like those who, all at once, discover
In the lone deep some fairy shore,
Where mortal ! ver trod before,
And sleep and wake in scented airs
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs.

Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness ;
With eyes so pure, that from their ray,
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze!
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this.
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly feeling,
Religion's soften'd glories shine,
Like light through summer foliage stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,
So warm, and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere.


“How sweetly does the moon-beam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !
Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse shall beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone!
Far from the cruel and the cold,
Where the bright eyes of angel's only
Should come around us, to behold
A paradise so pure and lonely!
Would this be world enough for thee?"-
Playful she turn’d, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
Yes, yes," she cried, “my hourly fears,
My dreams have boded all too right!
We part-for ever part-to-night!
I knew, I knew it would not last-
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past !
Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay ;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die !
Now too—the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,- .
Oh misery! must I lose that too?
Yet go-on peril's brink we meet ;-
Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea-
No never come again—though sweet,
Though heaven,-it may be death to thee.
Farewell—and blessings on thy way,
Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger !
Better to sit and watch that ray,
And think thee safe, though far away,
Than have thee near me, and in danger !"

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