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him to pass through the fire and be unsinged.

But the genius of a poet is estimated by every man according to his own private feeling, and it may therefore be as well to lay it for a moment out of the question.-Since the publication of Lalla Rookh, the admirers of Moore have chosen to talk as if his genius were of the first order, and yourself, I observe, are of the same way of thinking. On this point we are not likely to agree. But however wavering may be the standard of some of the late admirers of Mr Moore, I well know that you at least will have no objections to try the MORALITY of any poet by the only standard which is unchanging and unerring. If you find that the elements of his elegant compositions are essentially and hopelessly impure, you will have no hesitation in agreeing with me, that, whatever his original genius may have been, the use to which he has applied it has taken from him all right to the place, or the communion, of the great poets of England. That man inust think lightly and erringly, who doubts the eternal union of the highest intellect with the highest virtue. I doubt not that I shall speedily bring you to be of the same mind with myself, respecting the tendency of Mr Moore's performances; and if you do so, you will, in the sequel, have less difficulty in embracing my opinion concerning its inspiration also.

Of the early productions, by which the name of this poet was rendered notorious, I shall say nothing. He himself professes to be ashamed of them, and I doubt not the sincerity of his professions. He is, moreover, sufficiently punished by their existence. The poison which he has once mingled he cannot spill. The muse which he has profaned asserts her privilege even in her degradation. The sculptor or the painter may destroy his work, or, if it has parted from his hands, it may be veiled by its possessor; but the impure poet has roused a demon which he has no spell to lay. The foul spirit has received wings with its evocation, and the unhappy sorcerer is doomed, wherever he may go, to hear their infernal flap, and tread on the vestiges of their blighting. Year after year may pass, and repentance may sit in the place of vice,

"But tears which wash out guilt can't wash out shame;"

and Mr Moore, when he is stretched upon the bed of death, will understand what it was that troubled, with a tenfold pang, the last agonies of Rochester.

It had been well, however, if, when Mr Moore learned to despise himself for gross impurity, he had not stopped half-way in his reformation. It had been well, that instead of lopping off the most prominent branches, he had torn up the roots also, and for ever withered the juices of his tree of evil. Did he imagine that the harlot would purify her nature by the assumption of a veil, or that his ideas would be remembered with impunity, only because his words might be recited without a blush? His muse has abused the passport which hypocrisy or self-ignorance procured her; and they who adopt the sentiments of the bard of the Melodies and Lalla Rookh, although indeed they need not be confounded with the disciples of Little, must remain for ever unworthy and incapable of understanding or enjoying those pure and noble thoughts, which form the brightest ornament of their productions, with whom Mr Moore would fain have himself to be associated. The whole strain of his music is pitched upon too low a key. If he never sinks into absolute pollution, neither dares he for a moment rise to the true sublime of purity. He writes for women chiefly, and woman is at all times his principal topic. How strange that he should never have been able to flatter his audience by dignifying his theme! How strange, that he who seems to understand so well every minor, superficial, transitory charm, should manifest so total a blindness to the only charm which is deep and enduring-to that of which all the rest are but the images and shadows to that for which no luxury compensates, and no passion can atone. I have heard your fair country women warbling the words of Moore; and from their lips what can appear unclean? But in the retirement of the closet, and deprived of the protection of their purity, the words were I weighed in the balance and found wanting." The sinless creatures that utter them cannot understand their meaning. I do not wish to say that their meaning is any thing positively, expressly, necessarily bad. It is enough for my purpose that it is not positively and necessarily good. The

Epicurean tinge is diffused over the whole. The beautiful garlands which these chaste fingers handle have been gathered in the garden of the Sybarites. They should not twist them into their innocent locks-there is phrenzy in their odours.

One of the chief distinctions between the poets of ancient and those of modern times, consists in the wide difference which may be observed in their modes of representing the character and influence of the female sex; and in no one point perhaps is the superiority so visibly on the side of the moderns. Of those modern poets, nevertheless, who have been contented with the praises of gayety, sprightliness, invention, and spontaneously disavowed every claim to the highest honours of their art, not a few have, from vice or affectation, dared, in scorn of their destiny, to revive in their strains the discarded impurity of their predecessors. It will be understood, that I refer not to casual or superficial impurities merely, but to those which imply a complete and radical pollution of all ideas concerning the nature of the softer sex-a degradation of the abstract conception of their character, and of the purposes for which they have been created. This corruption has entered into the composition of no poetry more deeply and essentially than into that of Moore. He never for a moment contemplates them but with the eye of a sensualist. He has no capacity to understand such a character as Imogen or Una. The smiles of which he loves to warble, are not those of the "Unblenched Majesty" which Milton worshipped. Their nature is sufficiently betrayed by the company in which he places them. Listen to the words which he has placed in the mouth of a dying poet for even death, that awful moment in whose contemplation nature and religion teach the purest to tremble, is represented by this songster as the scene of calm and contented reminiscencies of sensual delights-exactly as if the mighty change were nothing more than a revolution of corporeal atoms, as if there were no soul to wing an eternal flight from the lips of the departed.

<< When in death I shall calm recline,

Oh carry my heart to my mistress dear: Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

All the time that it lingered here."

In adopting the sentiments of ancient poets concerning women, he has widely erred. It is, however, a sad aggravation of his offence, that, among a set of authors, who are all impure, he has selected, for the models of his special imitation, those in whose productions the common stain is foulest. It is needless to say any thing of Anacreon, or of the perverse ingenuity which Mr Moore exhibited in exagge rating the corruption of that which was already abundantly impure-in taking away from the lewd verses of the Teian that simplicity of language and figure which formed the only offset to the pollution of their ideas. If one may judge either from the text, or from the notes even of Mr Moore's latest publications, the chief of his antique favourites are such men as Aristophanes, Catullus, Ovid, Martial, Petronius, and Lucian. In truth, he is totally unacquainted with the true spirit of ancient poetry, and admires and borrows exactly the worst things about that which he would profess to study with an intelligent delight.

The flattering ideas which Mr Moore has embraced concerning the measure of his own powers, are betrayed by the attempt which he has openly made to compete with the genius of Lord Byron in the choice of some of his scenes and subjects. But, notwithstanding the absurd eulogies of some of your reviewers, Mr Moore's Eastern Poetry has not, I perceive, taken any hold of the English mind; and this should be sufficient to convince that gentleman of his mistake. The radical inferiority of Mr Moore is abundantly visible even in that respect where, with sorrow do I speak it, it might least have been expected to appear. Lord Byron has done wrong in choosing to represent woman at all times as she exists in those countries where her character is degraded by the prevalence of polygamy. But he has in some measure atoned for this error. He has at least made her as noble as she could be in such a situation. He has poured around her every dignity which she could there be imagined to possess, and ascribed to her every power and influence which she could there enjoy: nay, by the preference with which he has uniformly represented her as receiving those who mingle with their love the chivalry of Christendom, he has at least insinuated what her rights

are, and vindicated the conscious nobility of her nature. Mr Moore has brought into the haram no such reliques of the truth. In his lays the Sultana of the East betrays no lurking aspirations after a purer destiny;

Cœlum non animum mutat qui trans mare currit ;

in Dublin, London, Bermuda, Khorassan, Mr Moore sees nothing in a woman but an amiable plaything or a capricious slave.

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I have enlarged upon this poet's manner of representing women, not because in that point alone he falls below the standard by which the great poets of your country must be contented to be tried, but because it is one on which every reflecting man must at once agree with me, while, in regard to many other points, I could not calculate upon quite so speedy an acquiescence. But as it is said in the Scripture, that he who breaks one of the commandments has offended against them all," so it may very safely be admitted, that the poet who betrays impurity and degradation of conception in respect to one point of moral feeling, can never be truly pure and lofty in regard to any other. In every man's system there is some consistency; and Mr Moore is a man of so much acuteness, that he could not fail soon to perceive and amend one solitary fault. When he discovers not the inky spot, there is proof abundant that darkness is around him.

Whatever the measure of his power may be, that man is unworthy to be a national poet, whose standard of moral purity and mental elevation falls below that of the people to which he would have his inspirations minister. It is the chief part of Mr Moore's ambition to be received as the national bard of his own island; and I observe, that on a late occasion, a very numerous and respectable body of his countrymen assembled to express, in his presence, their admission of his claims. No one can be less inclined than I am to speak harshly of an elegant, accomplished, and, in his own person, virtuous man; but I must say, that I should be very sorry to think so meanly of Ireland, as to imagine her deserving of no better poetry than Mr Moore can furnish. The land which can look upon the principles of his poetry as worthy of her, cannot herself be worthy of its genius. I trust that

the gay spirits of a single city are not permanently to dictate the decision of a generous nation; that the pureminded matrons and high-spirited men of Ireland will pause ere they authorise the world to seek the reflection of their character in the gaudy impurities and tinsel Jacobinism of this deluded poet. The truth is, that I am by no means apprehensive of seeing the "Green Isle" debase herself by making common cause with Mr Moore. Before any man can become the poet of a nation, he must do something very different from what has either been accomplished or promised in any of his productions. He. must identify his own spirit with that of his people, by embodying in his verse those habitual and peculiar thoughts which constitute the essence of their nationality. I myself have never been in Ireland; but I strongly suspect that Moore has been silent with respect to every part of her nationality-except the name. Let us compare him for a moment with one whose position in many circumstances resembled his, and whose works have certainly obtained that power to which his aspire. Let us compare the poet whose songs have been so effectually embalmed in the heart of Scotland, with him who hopes to possess, in that of Ireland, a mausoleum no less august.

There are few things more worthy of being studied, either in their character or in their effects, than the poems of Robert Burns. This man, born and bred a peasant, was taught, like all other Scotsmen, to read his Bible, and learned by heart, in his infancy, the heroic ballads of his nation. Amidst the solitary occupations of his rural labours, the soul of the ploughman fed itself with high thoughts of patriotism and religion, and with that happy instinct which is the best prerogative of genius, he divined every thing that was necessary for being the poet of his country. The men of his nation, high and low, are educated men ; meditative in their spirit, proud in their recollections, steady in their patriotism, and devout in their faith. At the time, however, when he appeared, the completion of their political union with a greater and wealthier kingdom, and the splendid success which had crowned their efforts in adding to the general literature of Britain-but above all, the chilling nature of the merely

speculative philosophy, which they had begun to cultivate, seemed to threaten a speedy diminution of their fervent attachment to that which was peculiarly their own. This mischievous tendency was stopped by a peasant, and the noblest of his land are the debtors of his genius. He revived the spark that was about to be extinguished-and taught men to reverence with increasing homage, that enthusiasm of which they were beginning to be ashamed. The levity of many of his descriptions, the coarseness of many of his images, cannot conceal from our eyes the sincerity with which, at the bottom of his heart, this man was the worshipper of the pure genius of his country. The improprieties are superficial, the excellence is ever deep.-The man might be guilty in his own person of pernicious trespasses, but his soul came back, like a dove, to repose amidst images of purity. The chaste and lowly affection of the village maiden was the only love that appeared worthy in his eyes, as he wandered beneath the virgin radiance of the harvest moon. In the haunts of the dissolute, the atmosphere of corruption might seize upon him, and taint his breath with the coldness of its derision; but he returned to right thoughts in the contemplation of the good, and felt in all its fulness, when he bent his knee by the side of "the Father and the Priest,' the gentle majesty of that religion which consoles the afflicted and elevates the poor. He is at present, the favourite poet of a virtuous, a pious, a patriotic people; and the first symptom of their decay in virtue, piety, and patriotism, will be seen on the instant when Scotsmen shall cease to treasure in their hearts the " Highland Mary," the "Cottar's Saturday Night," and the "Song of Bannockburn."

Mr Moore has attempted to do for Ireland the same service which Burns rendered to Scotland; but although his genius is undoubted, he has failed to do so. It will be said, that the national character of his countrymen did not furnish such materials as fell to the share of his rival, and there is no doubt that so far this is true. The Irish have not the same near recollections of heroic actions, or the same proud and uncontaminated feeling of independence as the Scots. Their country has been conquered, perhaps oppressed, and the memory of those

barbarous times in which they were ruled by native reguli is long since faded into dimness and insignificance. The men themselves, moreover, are deficient, it may be, in some of those graver points of character, which afford the best grappling places for the power of poetry. All this may perhaps be admitted; but surely it will not be contended, but that much, both of purpose and instrument, was still left within the reach of him that would aspire to be the national poet of the Irish. Their religious feelings are not indeed of so calm and dignified a nature as those of some nations, but they are strong, ardent, passionate, and, in the hands of one worthy to deal with them, might furnish abundantly the elements both of the beautiful and the sublime. Their character is not so consistent as it might be, but it yields to none in the fine attributes of warmth, of generosity, and the whole chivalry of the heart. Were these things likely to have been left out of the calculation of a genuine poet of Ireland?— Mr Moore addresses nothing to his countrymen that should make them listen to him long. He seems to have no part nor lot with them in the things which most honourably and most effectually distinguish them from others. He writes for the dissipated fashionables of Dublin, and is himself the idol in the saloons of absentees; but he has never composed a single verse which I could imagine to be impressed upon the memory, nor brought together a single groupe of images calculated to ennoble the spirit of an Irish peasant.

Were the Irish to acknowledge in this man, their Burns or Camoens, they would convince Europe, that they are entirely deficient in every thing that renders men worthy of the name of a nation. The "Exile of Erin," and the "O'Connor's Child" of Campbell, are worth more to Ireland than all the poetry of Moore.

*

THE MINSTREL OF BRUGES.

Part Fourth. (Continued from vol. III. page 671.)

Is it not true, my young lady readers of eighteen, and even you of forty years, that you are anxious about the

fate of Amurat? You are in the right -charming as Medoro, he was more tender; and Ernestine, with whom you are scarcely acquainted, was of ten times the value of that coquet Angelica. She had followed her mother to the garden of the convent in tears-we are sorrow to see her weep-he must be an absolute barbarian that could be untouched with her sorrows. But let us resume our story.-The holy brotherhood and the Inquisition are terrible things. The handsome Amurat, although led away through Murcia with his hands fettered, had in this state interested the whole of that kingdom. There was not a girl, on seeing him pass, who did not cry out, "Heavens, what a pity! is it possible for any one to be a Mahommedan, and so handsome?"

The poor boy was going to be brailed without hope of pardon. He was confined in a dungeon, with only bread and water for his food; and for his sole comfort, a Dominican visited him twice a day, but without speaking a word. It was for the handsome Amurat himself to confess his crime, but the poor innocent felt himself no way culpable.

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One day the Dominican said to him, "You will not then confess any thing to me?""Pardon me,” replied Amurat, I will confess to you that I shall die, if separated from Ernestine." "Wretched infidel," exclaimed the Monk, "how dare you name a Christian?" "Why not," said the sorrowful Amurat? "She was the life of my existence, the sun of my days, the object of every thought, and the only thing my heart pants after." "Consider your end," replied the Dominican, within two days the pile will be lighted for you-you must not look for pardon, as you are under the most obstinate impenitence." "For what cause?" asked Amurat. "In having run away with Ernestine from her father and mother." "Oh, father!" said Amurat," I ask your pardon, you seem to labour under an error, for it was Ernestine's mother who gave her to me; however, if you are determined to burn me, do so, but it will never be in such a bright flame as now consumes me for Ernestine. Alas, alas! I shall then never see her more -burn me, burn me, for I cannot live without her!"

The Dominican, who had never be

fore seen any infidel so eager for death in the prisons of the holy Inquisition, ruminated, while counting his rosary, on the answer of Amurat; and as at bottom he was a good-natured man, he suspected some mystery, and to clear it up, he returned to the handsome Moor to inquire into the details of his arrest and imprisonment. The simple boy told him every thing with the utmost sincerity; how the bright eyes, the enchanting smile, and the harmonious voice of the modest Ernestine, had seduced him in Murcia; how, after some time, he gained courage to tell her of all the pains he was suffering for her; how his virtuous but kind-hearted girl blushed at his declaration without saying a word; how, one day surprising her sighing, he asked her the cause; but she only looked at him, and sighed again; and this made him comprehend that she returned his flame: how he cast himself at the feet of the Minstrel's wife, and interested her in his passion; how the Minstrel, on hearing it, became furious, to find that a Moor had the audacity to make love to his daughter; how they had all run away from the house of the Minstrel; and how the officer of the holy brotherhood, after having robbed the wife of the Minstrel, who had previously been his mistress, of all that she had, had sent her home again with Ernestine, and had loaded him with chains.

This last circumstance opened the eyes of the Dominican; he thanked Heaven for having prevented him from committing an unjust act, and summoned the officer before him, who avowed the whole. The handsome Amurat appeared very excusable, and was set at liberty, upon condition of being instructed in the Christian religion; but he would make no promise, except of doing whatever should please Ernestine.

He fled back to Murcia, where he learnt that the Minstrel had quitted the town with all his family. They could not inform him exactly what road he had taken, but they thought it was that toward Madrid. Poor Amurat hastened to Madrid, describing all the way the persons he was in search of; but he gained only vague and unsatisfactory answers. On his arrival at Castille, he heard that his countrymen had lost a great battle. Too full of his own misfortunes to

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