near Pisa, July 7th 1822; his remains were burnt and the ashes preserved in an urn. In Italy he wrote 'Prometheus Unbound,' a play in which many of his religious and political opinions are fully expounded; its style is grand but sometimes too elaborate. Then followed The Cenci, a most horrible tragedy: it is, however, held in great estimation, as being one of the finest modern specimens in this department. 'Hellas' and 'Rosalind and Helen' were the next in order: in Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad day-light 15 the latter the poet endeavours to prove that marriage is an evil, and ought not to be allowed in the present state of society. Adonais' is a beautiful lament for the death of Keats, whose early decease was sincerely deplored by Shelley. Of his remaining works the following may still be mentioned: 'Queen Mab,' written when the author was eighteen years old, 'The Witch of Atlas,' 'Epipsychidion, The Masque of Anarchy,' 'Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude,' 'Julian and Maddalo,' &c. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth Keen are the arrows delight. Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear. 20 surpass: Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard, Praise of love or wine 60 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is That panted forth a flood of rapture so All the earth and air there. 25 divine. 65 With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud But an empty vaunt, The moon rains out her beams, and heaven A thing wherein we feel there is some As from thy presence showers a rain of What love of thine own kind? what ignor To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad 40 satiety. not. 80 Better than all measures Of delight and sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, 95 NATURAL APPEARANCES OF RETURNING SPRING. Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 5 season's bier. The loving birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere; And the green lizard, and the golden Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the Like unimprisoned ground! Teach me half the gladness That the brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, 100 The world should listen then, as I am listening now. TIME. 105 snake, flames, out of their trance awake. THOMAS MOORE, the author of 'Irish Melodies,' was born in Dublin, in 1780, of Roman Catholic parents. He studied at Dublin University, where he translated into English verse the Odes of Anacreon. In 1803 he obtained a post at Bermuda, where he remained twelve months. He afterwards travelled over large part of America, but got into difficulties in money concerns by the conduct of the person who acted as his deputy at Bermuda. His 'Odes and Epistles' were published in 1806, and severely criticised by the Edinburgh Review. It was in 1811 that he became personally acquainted with Lord Byron, with whom he lived some time at Newstead Abbey. Two years later he wrote his political satires, in which he excelled by the elegance of his style, and the severity with which he treated his opponents. Amongst his humorous writings the Fudge Family and the Twopenny Post Bag' are considered the best; the latter consists of a selection of letters from eminent persons, pretended to have been intercepted. In 1813 Moore began his 'Irish Melodies," by which his name has been rendered illustrious, and which of all his productions will probably longest survive him, and establish for him the widest repu MOORE. tation. In 1817 he published 'Lalla Rookh,' an oriental romance, consisting of four poems, united by a story in prose. In all these poems he has taken oriental life for his subject, and has worked them up in a highly coloured manner. Moore wrote also another oriental poem entitled, "The Loves of the Angels,' which he composed in Paris. He also appeared as a prose writer, and published the lives of Byron and Sheridan and the Memoirs of Lord Edward Fitzgerald. His last publication was a work in prose, entitled The Epicurean. It is a story of the early Christians, the scene of which is in Egypt; this production is written in the style of Lalla Rookh. All his compositions are distinguished throughout by a delicacy of feeling, elegance and humour, and a delightful command of the language which the author seems to be able, in almost any manner, to turn to his advantage. Moore resided in a small cottage in Wiltshire during the last years of his life, preferring quiet country comfort to the gay society in which he might always have shone. He published his poetical works in ten volumes, which were hailed with a warm welcome by the public. He died in 1852. 'Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of Heaven is worth them all!' The glorious Angel, who was keeping From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the blue flow'r, which-Bramins sayBlooms nowhere but in Paradise! 'Nymph of a fair but erring line!' Gently he said-'One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The l'eri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal gate The Gift that is most dear to Heaven! Go seek it, and redeem thy sin"Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in!' Rapidly as comets run To th'embraces of the Sun :- 30 35 40 45 And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for heav'n-I know The wealth,' she cries, 'of every urn, In which unnumber'd rubies burn, Beneath the pillars of Chilminar; 55 60 I know where the Isles of Perfume are In the boundless Deep of Eternity?' With human blood-the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers! 80 Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled! 120 Of Eden moves not-holier far Than ev'n this drop the boon must be, 85 That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!' Land of the Sun! what foot invades His blood-hounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks 90 Of many a young and lov'd Sultana;— 95 The red blade broken in his hand 100 105 To watch the moonlight on the wings 155 Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Moeri's Lake. 'Twas a fair scene,-a Land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought, that saw this night 160 (1) Mahmoud, who conquered India in the 11th century. Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in heav'n's serenest light;- Bathing their beauties in the lake, Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lap-wing's cry is heard, Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheathe its gleam) Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an Idol bird! 220 One who in life, where'er he mov'd, Is still like distant music heard. 225 230 235 Who could have thought, that there, ev'n That she, whom he for years had known, And lov'd, and might have call'd his own, Was safe from this foul midnight's breath; 240 Safe in her father's princely halls, This melancholy bower to seek, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, 255 In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Of Eden's infant cherubim! 260 265 270 The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me! There,- drink my tears, while yet they fall, Would that my bosom's blood were balm, And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, 25 275 |