having ran the rounds of the English press, were subsequently copied into the American Journals. About the same time he became a contributor to Robins's London and Dublin Magazine. Decidedly one of the most powerful pieces of ridicule in the English language is his poem on Daniel O'Connell, entitled, "The Leader," which appeared in that publication. When asked why he wrote those severe lines on the indefatigable patriot, who was known to admire him, and who publicly termed him "A thorn in the side of the enemy." He replied, "O'Connell is of too much value to Ireland to let him spoil himself: he must sometimes feel the rod." Though our poet did not speak in public, his pen was incessantly and powerfully employed in favor of the great question of Emancipation, which then agitated the country. On that subject, his writings, both in prose and verse, are numerous; and his services were considered so efficient, that on the success of the measure, his portrait was published with those of O'Connell, Shiel, Steele, Barrett, Wyse, and other leading members of the Catholic Association. His poetical pursuits were not, however, entirely interrupted by his patriotic and political labors. During the years 1825 and 1826 he was occasionally employed on the Doom of Derenzie, a descriptive poem, which was published, after his death, by Robins, London, 1829. This poem was warmly eulogised by his friend and brother poet, the late Rev. Charles Maturin, with whom he had been long on habits of the closest intimacy*. It was thus spoken * From among several familiar letters of this talented individual to Mr. Furlong, the following is selected for its brevity, and its allusion to the above poem: "Wednesday, I trust the melancholy circumstance of my poor father's death will excuse my not writing to you lately.-I am of in some of the London periodicals of the day. "The Doom of Derenzie was only passing through the press when the author died. The poem is of considerable length, and of a somewhat domestic character; it addresses itself to the most salutary feelings of the human heart, and possesses a power and an interest, which the most romantic fictions of the day could not communicate. The hero is a character quite new to us; neither Lady Morgan nor Mr. Banim has rendered us familiar with an Irish fairyman; and, we believe, this is the first instance in which his portrait has been given to the English public. As a mere tale, this poem possesses all the advantages of an ingenious fiction; and to this is superadded the charms of the most exquisite poetry-breathing the finest pathos and the sublimest sentiments. Mr. Furlong was a poet in the exact sense of the word: his soul seems to have glowed confined with an inflammation in my eyes, for which I am undergoing a severe mercurial course; but if you can have the charity to sit with a blind invalid, come and drink tea with me this evening from seven till ten. Bring your poem with you. I write this with great difficulty. You see I have some chance of fame in being ranked with, Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,' though I confess it is the last particular in which I should wish to resemble those worthies. "Faithfully your's, "C. R. MATURIN." The writer did not long survive this letter. He died with a broken heart, after having been made the dupe of a party of religious bigots in Dublin, who, with all the bitterness of sectarian zeal, prevailed on him to preach a series of shallow "Sermons against Popery," for which he was laughed at by many, and pitied by all. This bigotted coterie, from the "mitred prelate" to the bible-reading votaries of the tea-table, afterwards suffered the man of genius to die in comparative want. When Sir Walter Scott, after his arrival in Dublin, visited Mr. Maturin's widow, he burst into tears on beholding her situation. This affecting incident does honor to the feelings of that distinguished man. with a passionate love of nature; and he painted as he felt, vividly and correctly. Were merit alone a sufficient recommendation, the Doom of Derenzie', we are certain, would become popular." The reviewer has given several extracts, from which he says, " Our readers will perceive how truly poetical the whole must be. The limits of these pages render it necessary to omit those passages, and refer to the poem itself, which will amply reward the perusal of every reader of taste." Mr. Furlong's last poetical efforts were the translations of CAROLAN'S REMAINS, and other ancient poems and songs contained in this collection. When his aid was first solicited, the writer had the same difficulty with him, as with others, to prove that any productions of value were extant in the Irish language. Acquainted only with the English words associated with our native airs*, he smiled incredulously at the asserted poetical excellence of the original lyrics, and even questioned their existence. The vulgar ballads, composed in English, during the last 150 years, are a disgrace to our sweet and simple melodies, to which they have been so cruelly and unnaturally united. This trash, which modern collectors have dignified with the title of "National Irish Song!!!" displaced the native lyrics so effectually, that the memory of the originals was soon wholly erased in the Anglicised parts of Ireland. Mr. Furlong was, therefore, fully excusable for his literary scepticism on a point with which men of more years and experience were equally unacquainted. It is considered. scarcely necessary here to state, what every reader is already aware of, that Mr. Moore's words to our "Irish Melodies," form a splendid exception to the foregoing general censure. Poetry," it has been truly observed, "is the soul of melody." Hence these beautiful lyrics will command admiration to the latest posterity. Our patriotic countryman, T. Crofton Croker, Esq., is now engaged on the subject of Anglo-Irish Song. He will separate the ore from the dross; and from his talents and research, much may be expected in this department of national literature. 66 It was true, he admitted, that he had often heard them spoken of, and sometimes praised, but that he considered as the mere boasting of national prejudice. "If," said he, "they possess any merit, I cannot conceive how they could have remained so long unknown." After several explanations, however, and an examination of some of these neglected originals, his opinions began to change. He at length confessed that he discovered beauties of which, until then, he had been wholly unconscious; and finally entered on the undertaking, with an ardour and perseverance which continued to the hour of his death. In his translations he endeavored to express himself as he conceived the bard would have done, had he composed in English. He was "true to his sense, but truer to his fame." But as the public will now have to judge of the merit of his labors, it is not intended here to anticipate its opinions, by any premature expression of our own. On the principle, that none but a poet should attempt to translate a poet, his translations may be entitled to attention; and on them his friends are not unwilling to rest his poetical character. A short time before Mr. Furlong's death, he attended a public dinner in Dublin, at which the health of our patriot bard, Thomas Moore, was drank with the usual enthusiasm. Mr. Furlong, having been called upon, spoke as follows: "It is impossible to speak of MOORE in the ordinary terms of ordinary approbation-the mere introduction of his name is calculated to excite a warmer, a livelier feeling. We admire him not merely as one of the leading spirits of our time; we esteem him not merely as the eager and impassioned advocate of general liberty-but we love him as the lover of his country. We hail him as the denouncer of her wrongs, and the fearless vindicator of her rights. What a glorious contrast does he offer to the spiritless, slavish race that have preceded him. We have had our poets, the Parnells, the Roscommons, and the Goldsmiths, distinguished and celebrated in their day; but these, Irishmen as they were, scorned even to name the ill-fated land of their birth. It remained for Moore to tread the unbeaten path, and believe it, his example will not be lost upon others. The fine mind of the nation is already unfolding itself. Irish literature is no longer unfashionable. The demand increases, and the supply is certain. There is an exuberance of talent in the country, literally a waste of genius. Justly has Ireland been called “The Land of Song," the very atmosphere is poetical-the breezes that play around us seem the very breathings of melody. The spirits of our ancient bards are looking down, inviting the youth of the soil to participate in their glory. How could Moore, when speaking of Ireland, be otherwise than poetical? how could he touch on such a subject without catching an added spirit of inspiration? Ours is, indeed, a country worth loving-worth struggling for-aye, worth dying for. Who can look on it with indifference? The land of the beautiful and the brave-the land of the minstrel, the saint, and the sage the home of all that is lovely and endearing. Green are her hills in richness glowing, Such has been the source of Moore's inspiration." On this occasion Mr. O'Connell, who presided, pronounced a glowing eulogium on the talents and patriotism of the speaker, declaring him, in his opinion, second only to the inimitable poet whom he had so eloquently described. Soon after this, Mr. Furlong's health, which had been long declining, suddenly grew worse. A general weakness pervaded his frame, accompanied with a total loss of appetite. His disorder, although he had the best medical assistance which Dublin could afford, proceeded rapidly, and, after a short confinement to his bed, he died on the 25th of July, 1827, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was interred in the churchyard of Drumcondra, in the vicinity of Dubin; and over his grave, which lies near that of the |