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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 poetfor 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 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

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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.

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 he worthy of its genius. I trust that

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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. 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

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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 broiled 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.

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

think of his country, he pursued his road. On his way he overtook a sort of Moorish Esquire, near a ravine, crying most bitterly, while two fine Andalusian mares were feeding quietly beside him. It was Sabaoth himself, who had witnessed the death of the Zegris, commander of the Moors, and his good master.

Amurat approached him, and asked him the same questions he had done to all he met: "Sir," said he, "have you seen an old thin man playing on the bagpipe, accompanied by an old woman, two young boys, and a girl more beautiful than all the infantas of the world?" "Aye, that I have," replied Sabaoth sobbing, "at a distance, the eve of the battle we have just lost. I am well acquainted with that old bagpiper you speak of, and he ought to remember me, for I have of ten given him many a hearty thrashing in the stables of my last worthy defunct master at Grenada. I have

also some claim on his gratitude, for I made him a physician, and so able a one, that he attended my master. It was, however, fortunate for him, that during his attendance I was occupied in the stables, and was ignorant of his audacity in pretending to be doctor to a Zegris. I would have taught him what a stable boy was to a groom. But, be assured, that I have seen him pass by, and he had in fact with him two women and two children, but in so miserable a condition, that both Moors and Christians allowed him to continue his road unmolested, on account of his misery. I am not so fortunate, which is the cause of my weeping, for my road is intercepted, and I cannot return again to Grenada without risk of being taken; you also will run the same chance." Amurat replied, "Sir Squire, you are right in fearing being made a prisoner in this country, for they treat us Moors very scurvily; I that am speaking to you have narrowly escaped broiling by the holy Inquisition. Therefore, instead of returning to Grenada, let us disguise ourselves, which we can easily do, for I have in the havresack that you see on my shoulders, a dress that I intended for a present to the Minstrel, to render him propitious to my love, and another that I had bought for his adorable daughter. You shall put on the first, and I will dress myself in the second, when, mounting

these two mares, we may traverse all Spain in security; the holy brotherhood will not touch you, and I may perhaps overtake Ernestine." "I agree to your proposal," answered Sabaoth, "for, after all, it is better to be a wanderer and vagabond than burnt."

We are concerned to leave our two Moors in the plains of Castille, but the monastery of Vaucelles recalls us. We had left Ernestine with her mother, and said, that this unfortunate girl could not eradicate from her heart the shaft which love had fixed there. She was ignorant of that formidable power that triumphs over reason in spite of ourselves, which we wish, and wish not to conquer, which effaces all other sentiments of the soul, which exists and renews itself by its own force, and will not allow us to have another thought, and which subjects us to a torment at once pleasing and painful, whereof cold hearts can have no idea.

Such was the volcano that inflamed the soul of Ernestine; such the deity, who, in the midst of pains, procured her delights; such the demon that was tearing her heart to pieces.

What could the wife of the Minstrel do in such a case? She had had intrigues, and a variety of adventures, but they are only the simulation of love. Her daughter seemed to her mad, which is the usual name indifference gives to that passion, and she considered as a weakness, what is the strongest power in nature. She reasoned and argued, during which, Ernestine sighed and wept. There was no other remedy for her disorder than the disorder itself. Besides, to bring back an impassioned heart from its wanderings, the person who attempts it should be pure, without which, no one has a right to talk of virtue, and the mother of Ernestine had lost that right over her daughter. Too happy Minstrel! during this time thou wast forgetful in the hall of guests, of all past troubles, and one pleasant half hour effaced the remembrance of sixty years of misery. Why should we seek happiness in the upper ranks of life, in opulent fortunes, or in a multiplicity of pleasures? It is not even to be found in mutual love, and consists solely in indifference.

The Minstrel was very communicative of every adventure he had had. He related one which certainly proves that the good and evil things of this

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