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Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon.”

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Music is a great element of Moore's poetry. How few have succeeded so well in softening the Teutonic jar of our language, and giving a flow to the verse and a cadence to the rhythm, like the liquid tongues of the south! And what an ineffable charm has the melody given to his song! He compares his verses to " flies preserved in amber." So beguiling is the greater portion of the music that we can scarcely give a calm examination to the poems with which it is indissolubly associated. In this respect Moore enjoys a signal advantage. There is an anecdote of an ancient dame who refused to sanction the publication of her deceased partner's sermons, because they couldn't print the tone with them." In poetry, how much depends upon the reader's tone, both of voice and of mind! How many noble pieces of verse slumber in obscurity for want of an oral interpreter! Elocutionary skill has revealed beauties in poetry of which even the author never dreamed. The sweetest of Moore's effusions are allied to delightful music. Sense and soul are simultaneously addressed, and perhaps no modern bard has been more widely felt as well as acknowledged to be a poet. In the gay saloon, on the lonely sea, from the lips of the lady and the peasant, the student and the sailor, the lover and the hero, how often have breathed such airs as "The Meeting of the Waters, Love's Young Dream," " Come rest in this bosom," "Oft in the Stilly Night," "Come, ye Disconsolate,' ," "Sound the Loud Timbrel," "Mary's Tears," and others as familiar in bower and hall. Thousands have responded to the sentiment of Byron :

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"Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"T is to thee that I would drink.

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"In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be-Peace to thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore!"

There is certainly something real and grateful in such fame, and it is not surprising that Moore declares he has no idea of poetry, disconnected with music.

The national associations connected with the poetry of Moore greatly enhance its attractions. As the bard of a depressed but noble people, whose sufferings are only equalled by their heartiness and hardihoood, he claims universal sympathy. We cannot but remember that his strains breathe of a land so lovely and so impoverished that it has been aptly called Paradise Lost. In those touching melodies which seem to embalm the fresh soul of Erin in the days of her strength, what fervent appeals are there to every loyal and benevolent heart! Indeed the very fact of gathering from the cotter's fireside, from moor and valley and sequestered glen, the wild and melting notes of old Irish song, and wedding them to the language of modern refinement, strikes us as one of the most romantic enterprises of modern poetry. If an Italian painting, a Moorish fountain and an Egyptian pyramid affect us, as the surviving and beautiful memorials of a nation's better day, how much more should we recognize the eloquent and simple music of a distant era, in which the glow of love, patriotism and grief is yet warm and thrilling! Not less in his personal traits than his muse does Moore illustrate his country; his patriotism, convivial talents and kindly feelings are equally characteristic. As the popular bard of Ireland, his position is singularly desirable. He is not lost in a crowd of versifiers and associated with a local school, but strikes the imagination as the poetical representative of a great and unfortunate With the groans that echo from her afflicted

nation.

shores his notes of fancy and feeling mingle, to rem us of the high and warm traits of the Irish heart, and the flowers of genius still blooming amid the gloom her distress. Well may he sing

"Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee!
The cold chain of s le ice had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song!"

ROGERS.

SUCH a quiet attribute as taste is not very efficient at a period like the present. And yet it is one of those qualities which go far toward perpetuating a poem as well as a statue or painting. We are now so accustomed to look for the rare and striking in literature, that the very principle which harmonizes and stamps with enduring beauty the effusions of mind, is scarcely appreciated. It is chiefly to the past that we must look for poetic taste. Recent bards have but seldom done justice to the form and manner of their writings. There is something, however, in a refined style and tasteful execution not unworthy the highest genius. It is due at least to that magic vehicle of ideas which we call language, that it should be wrought and polished into a shape fitted to enshrine the glowing image and the lofty thought. Many a work, the sentiment of which is without significance in this busy age, continues to delight from its artistical excellence, and much of the literature of the day, that bears the impress of genius, is destined to speedy oblivion, from its unfinished and ill-constructed diction. There is no little scope for sweet fancy and delicate feeling in the use of language. Not in his ideas and figures alone is the poet manifest. Indeed, it is as rare to find a good artist in the sphere of words and sentences as in that of marble and colours. Some ingenious philosophers have pointed out analogies between styles of writing and char

acter, which suggest a much more delicate relation between the mind and its verbal expression than we generally suppose. Taste is no minor element of poetry; and the want of it has often checked the musical flow of gifted spirits, and rendered their development wholly unattractive. The epithet healthy has been applied with great meaning to a book. Of the same efficacy is taste in poetic efforts. It renders them palatable and engaging, it wins our regard immediately, and gives double zest to the more imposing charms of the work. It is like a fine accompaniment in music; the sentiment of the song is heightened, and we cannot thenceforth even read it without a peculiar association of pleasure. Rogers is distinguished by no quality more obviously than that of taste. His general characteristics are not very impressive or startling. There are few high reflective beauties, such as win reverence for the bard of Rydal Mount, and scarcely an inkling of the impassioned force of Childe Harold. We are not warmed in his pages, by the lyric fire of Campbell, or softened by the tender rhapsodies of Burns; and yet the poetry of Rogers is very pleasing. It gains upon the heart by gentle encroachments. It commends itself by perfect freedom from rugged, strained and unskilful versification. It is, for the most part, so flowing and graceful that it charms us unaware. Without brilliant flashes or luxuriant imagery, it is still clear, free and harmonious. It succeeds by virtue of simplicity, by unpretending beauty; in a word, by the genuine taste which guides the poet, both in his eye for the beautiful, and the expression of his feelings. Great ideas are not often encountered in his poems, but purity of utterance and a true refinement of sentiment everywhere abound.

There is perhaps no Englishman who, by such universal consent, is more worthy the appellation of a man of This tone of mind is the more remarkable, inas

tase.

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