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the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or in- culiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's mudustry, if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my sic; and, far from agreeing with those critics who think country, by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the their energy, and their tenderness.

airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, Though the humble nature of my contributions to they resemble those illuminated initials of old manuthis work may exempt them from the rigours of literary scripts, which are of the same character with the writing criticisms, it was not to be expected that those touches which follows, though more highly coloured' and more of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, curiously ornamented. in which the poetry sometimes sympathizes with the In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill music, would be suffered to pass without censure or has particularly distinguished itself; and, though it canalarm. It has been accordingly said, that the tendency not be denied that a single melody most naturally exof this publication is mischievous,' and that I have presses the language of feeling and passion, yet, often, chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics, when a favourite strain has been dismissed, as having as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of lost its charm of novelty for the car, it returns, in a St Augustin?) from which the wine of error might be harmonized shape, with new claims upon our interest administered. To those who identify nationality with and attention; and to those who study the delicate artrcason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland, a sys- tifices of composition, the construction of the inner tem of hostility towards England, —

,- to those too, who, parts of these pieces must afford, I think, considernursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the able satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with their darkness (like that Demophon of old, who, when pleasure, independent of the rest, so artfully has the the sun shone upon him, shivered !3)— such men I harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the ineloshall not deign to apologize for the warmth of any po- dy, distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to litical sentiment which may occur in the course of every part. these pages. But, as there are many, among the more If your Ladyship's love of Music were not known to wise and tolerant, who, with feeling enough to mourn

I should not have hazarded so long a letter upon over the wrongs of their country, and sense enouglı to the subject; but as, probably, I may have presumed perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet too far upon your partiality, the best revenge you can think that allusions in the least degree bold or intiam- take is to write me just as long a letter upon Painting; matory should be avoided in a publication of this po- and I promise to attend to your theory of the art, with pular description-1 beg of these respected persons to

a pleasure only surpassed by that which I have so often believe, that there is no one who deprecates more sin- derived from your practice of it.— May the mind which cerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an igno- such talents adorn, continue calm as it is bright, and rant and angry multitude; but, that it is not through happy as it is virtuous ! that gross and inflammable region of society a work Believe me, your Ladyship's of this nature could ever have been intended to circu

Grateful Friend and Servant, late. It looks much higher for its audience and read

Dublin, January, 1810. THOMAS MOORE. ers—it is found upon the piano-fortes.of the rich and the educated-of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated, without exciting much

ERIN! OH ERIN! drcad of the excesses into which it may hurry them;

AIR- Thamama Halla. and of many, whose nerves may be, now and then, alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane," by their fears, than could ever be expected from their

And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, justice.

Is the heart that afflictions have come o'er in vain, Having thus adverted to the principal objection which

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm! has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this Erin! oh Erin! thus bright, through the tears work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears! ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs, by The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the ela

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; borate variety of his barmonics. We might cite the And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported

The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. through all the mazes of musical science, in his arranger Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade!

Erin! oh Erin! though long in the shade, ment of the simplest Scottislı melodies; but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this lask, which it would be in vain to ex

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, pect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious.

The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as per violence to its meaning.

1 The word « chromatic, might have been used here, without any

* The inextinguishable fire of St Bridget, at Kildare, wbich Giral' Soo Letters, under the signatures of Timæus, etc. in the Morning dus mentions, « Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ quem Post, Pilor, and other papers.

inextinguibilem vocant ; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod *. Non accuso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa ; sed vinum tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetcole materia, erroris, quod cum eis nobis propioatur.»-Lib. 1. Confess. cap. 16. fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempo e virginis per tot aunorum curricula

*This emblem of modern bigots was bead-butler (723521010) semper mansit inextinctus. ---Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Bibere. Dis. to Alexander ibe Great. -Sext. Empir. Pyrrh, Hypoth. lib. i.

2, c. 34.

Till spring, with a touch, her dark slumber unbind,

And day-light and liberty bless the young flower.'
Erin! oh Erin! thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.


Arr-Heigh oh! my Jackey
Drink to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh;
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made

For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers play'd,

It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy;

The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,' And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. But alas! for his country-her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken which never would bend; O'er the ruin her cbildren in secret must sigh,

For 't is treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;

Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them through dignity's

way, Must be caught from the pile where their country

expires !

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream,

He should try to forget what he never can heal;
Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how

he 'll feel!
That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored,
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his


At Beauty's door of glass

When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They ask'd her which might pass ?»

She answer’d, « he who could.»
With golden key Wealth thought

To pass—but't would not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,

And cut his bright way through!
So here's to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy!

But, though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs; Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains,

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep.

The love that seeks a home,

Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome


Wulle gazing on the moon's light,
That dwells in dark gold mincs.

A moment from her smile I turn'd,
But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;

To look at orbs that, more bright,
Its native home 's above,

In lone and distant glory burn'd.

But, too far,
Though woman keeps it here!
Then drink to her, who long

Each proud star,
Hath waked the poct's sigh,

For me to feel its warming flame-
The girl who gave to song

Much more dear

That mild sphere,
What gold could never buy!

Which near our planet smiling came;}
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own

While brighter eyes unheeded play,

I 'll love those moonlight looks alone,

Which bless my home and guide my way! Air-Kitty Tyrrel, Ou! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,

"It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame;

from Yr, ibe Ronic for a bow, in the use of wbich weapon the Irish

were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to He was born for much more, and in bappier hours

us than the following : . So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. the constant broils ibere in for foo years) was now become ibe land of

concord..-Lloro's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

• Seo the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Ev pupsou x) Xd to " Mrs H. Tighe, in hor exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this $epos po penso I will carry my sword, hidden in myriles, liko, image to a still more important subject.

Harmodius and Aristogiion, etc. ? We may suppose this apology to bave been uttered by one of 1 Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the those wandering barus, whom Spenser so severely, and, perhaps, truly single 9:00n, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the describes in bis State of Ireland, and whoso poems, he tells us, were others, is much moro beneficial than they all put together.osprinkled with some pretty flowers of their patural device, which gave Waisron's Theory, etc. good grace and comelines onto them, the which it is great pity to see To the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, fiod a starry sky without a moon, with the words, Non mille, quod would serve to adora and beautify virtue..






The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meek, Numined all the pale flowers, Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek.

I said (while

The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss),

« The moon looks

On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this :." And thus I thought our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me.

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years:

But oh! how grand they sink to rest

Who close their eyes on Victory's brease! O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,

Where we dimm'd his glory's light!
Never let him bind again
A chain like that we broke from then.

Hark! the horn of combat calls

Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round !

Many a heart that now beats high,

In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:-

But, oh! how bles,'d that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!


AIR-Kitly of Coleraine; or, Paddy's Resource. When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,

The last time she e'er was to press it alone, For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her

soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

The maiden herself will steal after it soon!


Arr— Thy Fair Bosom. Night closed around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood, few and faint, but fearless suill! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimmd, for ever crost — Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour 's lost!

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A buttertly, fresh from the night-tlower's kisses,

Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise• Ah! such, said the girl, « is the pride of our faces,

For which the soul's innocence too often dics!.

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watch'd, till morning's heam

Should rise, and give them light to die! There is a world where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this ?

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease

was growing, She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost « Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its

meaning), « That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !»


Aia- Thady, you Gander.
Or! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that, when we're far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near !* The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine with itself, and make closely its owI.


AIR- The Fairy Queen.
By the hope within us springing,

Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun whose light is bringing

Chains or freedom, death or life
Oh remember life can be
No charm for himn who lives not free!

Like the day-star in the wave,

Sinks a hero to his grave, 'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears!

Happy is he o'er whose decline

1. The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.»-WALKER.

I believe it is Marmontel, who says, “Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a,.-There are so many matter-offact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes bem, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them tbat Democritas was not the worse physiologist for having playfully coutended that spow was black; por Erasmus in any degree the luss wise for having written aniegenious encomium of folly.

This image was suggested by its following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works;- The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon..

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near. 'T were a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there; And the world's so rich in resplendent éyes,

"T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable

too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue! Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

Kindling former smiles again,

In faded eyes that long have wept!
Like the gale that sig bs along

Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

memory lives in Music's breath!
Music! oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!
Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship’s balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;
Oh! 't is only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!



IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd

A18- The Sixpence. my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me It is not the tear at this moment shed, lay;

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love that can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, buro'd,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:

"T is the tear through many a long day wept, Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, Through a life by his loss all shaded; And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear 'T is the sad remembrance, fondly kept, to thee.

When all lighter griefs have faded! Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong‘d and Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, scorn'd;

While it shines through our hearts, will improve them; Thy crown was of briars, while gold her brows adorn'd; For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves;

When we think how he lived but to love them! Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were And, as buried saints have given perfume slaves :

To shrines where they've been lying,
Yet cold in the earth at thy feet I would rather be, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from From the image he left there in dying!


They slander thee sorely who say thy vows are frail

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less

AIR-Gage Fane. pale! They say, too, so long thou hast worn these lingering 'T is believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee, chains,

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved, stains

To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved. Oh! do not believe them — no chain could that soul But she loved bim in vain, for he left her to weep, subdue

And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shịneth too?"

Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,

And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled the
AIR-Banks of Banna.
When through life unblcss'd we rove,

While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame;
Losing all that made life dear,

And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright Should some notes, we used to love

rings, In days of boyhood, meet our ear,

Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings! Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!

These lines were occasioned by the death of a very near and dear Wakening thoughts that long have slept;

• This thought was suggested by an ingenious desiga, prefixed 10 1. Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. --Sr Paul, an ode upoo St Cecilia, published some years since, by Mr Hudson 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.



of Dublin.

Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been When my dream of life, from morn till night, known

Was love, still love! To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

New hope may bloom, Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

And days may come
To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!
No IV.

Oh! there 's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream! Tais Number of The Melodies ought to have appeared

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, much earlier; and the writer of the words is ashamed

When wild youth 's past ; to confess, that the delay of its publication must be im

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, puted chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it ne

To smile at last; cessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose

He 'll never mect of removing all blame from the publisher, but in con

A joy so sweet, sequence of a rumour, which has been circulated in

In all his noon of fame, dustriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had

As when first he sung to woman's ear interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work.

His soul-felt flame, This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear enactments against Minstrels; and it is very flattering

The one loved name! to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgol, the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, was of this opi

Which first-love traced ; nion, that one song like the Hymn to Harmodius, would

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Ro

On memory's waste! mans than all the philippics of Cicero. But we live

"T was odour fled in wiser and less musical times; ballads have long lost

As soon as shed; their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a

'T was morning's winged dream; « Lillibullero , would produce any very serious conse- 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again quences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add,

On life's dull stream! that there is no truth in the report; and we trust that

Oh! 't was light that ne'er can shine again whatever belief it obtained was founded more upon

On life's dull stream. the character of the Government than of the Work.

The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were, perhaps, in general, too curiously

THE PRINCE'S DAY." selected, to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are remarkably re

Air-St Patrick's Day. served towards new acquaintances in music, which, Tough dark are our sorrows, to-day we 'll forget them, perhaps, is one of the reasons why many modern com

And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in posers introduce none but old friends to their notice.

showers; Indeed, it is natural that persons who love music only There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, by association should be slow in feeling the charms of More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours ! a new and strange melody; while those who have a

But, just when the chain quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as na

Has ceased to pain, turally seek and enjoy novelly, because in every va- And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, riety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas,

There comes a new link and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the

Our spirit to sinkheart has rapidly translated it into sentiment. After Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popu- Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; lar of our national Airs are also the most beautiful; But, though 't were the last little spark in our souls, and it has been our wish, in the present Number, to We must light it up now on our Prince's Day. select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the col. Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal ! lection is the Air of Love's Young Dream;» but it is Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are one of those casy, artless strangers, whose merit the

true; heart acknowledges instantly.

And the tribute most high to a head that is royal

T. M. Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
Bury Street, St James's,

While cowards who blight
Nov. 1811.

Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen-
AIR- The Old Woman.
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

This song was written for a fete in bonour of the Prince of

Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in My heart's chain wove !

the county of Kilkenny.

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