the log book, as obtained to the nearest quarter point, when the sun was visible, by the azimuth of that object, and the apparent time. With respect to the main object of the expedition, Captain Parry seems to entertain very sanguine expectations. In addition to the discoveries which have been already made by himself, to those of Cook and Mackenzie, and on an inspection of the map, he thinks it almost a certainty that a north-west passage into the Pacific will be finally accomplished, and that the outlet will be found at Behring's Strait. But this he considers altogether impracticable for British ships, in consequence of the length of the voyage which must first be performed, in order to arrive at the point where the work is to be begun. Upon the whole, therefore, he considers that any expedition equipped by England with this view, would act with greater advantage by at once employing its best energies in the attempt to penetrate from the eastern coast of America, along its northern shore. Whatever may be the ultimate fate of these attempts, and whatever may be the ultimate result of these discoveries, which may, perhaps, add something to the science and the fame of our country, but which will, we fear, prove of but little practical utility, taken in a commercial point of view; still there certainly can be but one opinion as to the zeal and capabilities of Captain Parry. He seems to have performed the duties entailed on him by the Admiralty, not only with the skill of an able seaman, But to have much recommended his performance of them by the good humour and humanity which marked his conduct in the most trying situations. Perhaps the loss of the sun, and the inutility of the needle, and the frost bites in Winter Harbour, will not give the land reader half so distinct an idea of the perils to which such seas expose the navigator, as a single glance at some of the plates which are given in this volume. The situation of the ships at times must have been tremendous; and nothing can have been more awful than to behold sea and shore, hill and valley, in short, nature herself, under the aspect of one continued iceberg-no sound to break upon the silence, but the explosions of the ice, or the howling of the wolves; and no living thing to meet the eye, except some ravenous and half-famished animal. The embellishments of the work are very well executed; and the narrative is clear, consecutive, and simple. Our limits, and the late time at which we received this volume, will not allow us to give more than what we are aware is, and necessarily must be, a very hurried sketch, but we hope we have said enough to direct the reader to the original fountain. The gallant navigator is again securely cased in icebergs, from the shafts of criticismwe sincerely wish him a good voyage, a happy terminationsmiles and welcome from the Esquimaux Venus, and all the rewards and honours of the board of Admiralty. ART. XIV-A Selection of Irish Melodies. By Thomas Moore. THE eighth, and, we fear, the last number of the Irish Melodies, by the union of whose music to his beautiful verse, Mr. Moore has laid his country under such infinite obligations, has just issued from the press. When, in a former portion of the work, the poet bade "farewell to his harp," with all respect for him, we doubted his sincerity. "At lover's perjuries they say Jove laughs." -At poet's lapses, then, why should mortals be too serious? In this case it is impossible, because the delinquent has the double justification of love and poetry. However, there is prefixed to this number a general and final dedication of the entire work to the nobility and gentry of Ireland, which really looks as if it was brought to its termination in good earnest. Why this should be so, it is not for us to say. The poet is still, and long may he continue so, in full possession of his fine faculties; and the wild mountains and valleys of his country are still rich in most melodious airs, which have escaped the accompaniments of Mr. Bishop. Whether, however, this is to be the last sound of the Irish harp, or whether it will produce another dulcet echo, its music has certainly established, for Ireland, a high name in vocal science, and the verse to which it has been "married" places its author amongst the very first lyric peets of any age or nation-even by the side of Horace and Anacreon. Beautiful as are many parts of his Lalla Rookh, and exquisite as we admit many of his epistles from America to be, it is to his songs that Moore must trust for immortality, and immortal he must be as long as English ladies can love, or Irish gentleman can drink, which, we take it, is as much of immortality as any modern bard can consider himself equitably entitled to. The lyrist has, indeed, in this respect, a great advantage over the brotherhood of Parnassus. The heart of every one takes its season of benevolence, and grows tired of satire-the mind will not for ever chill itself within the shade of ethics, and neither heart nor mind can sustain eternally the horrors or the heights of the epic aspirant. But the lyrist strays carelessly along the verges of the mountain.-The echoes which he awakens, if not loud, are sweet; and the chords with which he produces them are heart-strings. He identifies himself with the passions of youth he associates himself with the pleasures of manhood-he sighs melodious comfort in the bower-he sings most mirthful logic over the bottle, he resounds and sweetens the music of the chase; and whether with young or old-in bowers, or copses, or banquets -sighing with lovers, or carousing with Bachanals, he entangles himself with the richest threads of our existence he is determined, at all events, to have a garland; and, when the season of the flowers is past, le jovially awaits its return, clustering his brows with the fruitage of the vineyard. In this last department, indeed, Moore has one living rival in the patriarch person of Captain Morris; but he has only one-there is no one else similis aut secundus. It is no disparagement to any one to admit Morris to a convivial competition. Bacchus in his wildest, merriest, and most classical moods, has not a more inspired idolater than the veteran laureate of the vintage-the snows of eighty winters have not withered a leaf of his laurels, and even Mont Blanc's "diadem" might melt in the sunshine of his perennial imagination. That time flies fast, the poet sings,' and 'That I think's a reason fair to fill my glass again,' will remain the standard justifications of every reveler who can blend wine, and wit, and music together, as long as the ivied god retains a single votary to hiccough over his orgies. Of course when we speak of the songs of Captain Morris, we speak only of those which he composed before the second bottle, of those which age may hear without a blush, and to which youth may listen without any fear of the consequences. As the lyrist of love, however, Moore stands alone and unrivalled. Anacreon might rise from his grave to hear him, and Lalage herself, whether "dulce ridens," or "dulce loquens," might forget for him, for a moment, even the nightingale of Italy. Of the songs contained in the present number, the one composed in memory of Mr. Grattan is the most elaborate, if not the happiest. But it is scarcely fair to consider it altogether as a song, because a note informs us that only the first two verses are intended to be sung. It is a poem, which the heart aided the head in dictating, and its subject well deserves the celebration. The first patriot of any country is worth the commemoration of its first poet. In this beautiful and spirited production there is much of history--the leading points, both of Mr. Grattan's public and private character, are touched with the fidelity of an analist. The utter darkness in which he found his country-the glorious splendour which he flashed on it-the memorable epoch of 1782, when he obtained a free trade, a free constitution, and a final judicature-the rewards given him by an attesting parliament-the sweet simplicity of his domestic life, and the noble equanimity which he preserved, alike amid the shade or the sunshine of popular versatility, are finely and judiciously illustrated. This monument, perennius are, erected by the hands of friendship, patriotism, and genius, is more than an equivalent to the children of Grattan, for the heartless ingratitude with which his memory has been treated. Alas, in Ireland there is little hope, that even Hamlet's span of commemoration will be permitted to "a great man." Athens was remarkable, and has become branded to all posterity, for the denunciation of the "bravest, the wisest, and the best" of her citizens; but Athens was civilized, and refinement too often polishes away the most substantial virtues of a national character.-What excuse, however, can the catholics of Ireland plead for having once, with savage ferocity, attempted the life of her Aristides! for having, before his ashes were cold, preferred to his candidate son, a man "without a name;" and for not even raising one poor stone in his honour, who rescued her from being a proverb and a bye-word among the nations! The same excuse will serve her for permitting the bones of Curran to rot unhonoured and forgotten in the vaults of Paddington. The following is the heart-touching effort by which Moore has exonerated himself from the general opprobrium. It is set to a mournful but spirited air, called Macfarlane's Lamentation. Shall the harp then be silent, when he, who first gave No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost! What a union of all the affections and powers, Bu which life is exalted, embellish'd, refin’d, And, for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal! In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, An eloquence, rich-where soever its wave Wander'd free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. Who, that ever approach'd him, when, free from the crowd, 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, That home, where-like him who, as fable hath told, Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come near- Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observ'd him-through glory, through blame, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same— Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, Of the sweetnes we love and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power, A child with a thunderbolt only portrays. Oh no-not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns, The following extract is from another and a very different kind of song set to one of Ireland's merriest planxties, and composed in honour of her far famed Potsheen Whiskey, which we are told |