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open and genial region where he loves most to indulge. He never dips his pen in malignity.
5. For an author who has written so much as Mr. Moore has done on the subject of love and the gay delights of good fellowship, it was scarce possible to be always natural and original. Some of his lyrics and occasional poems, accordingly, present far-fetched metaphors and conceits, with which they often conclude, like the final flourish or pirouette* of a stage-dancer. He has pretty well exhausted the vocabulary of rosy lips and spark ling eyes, forgetting that true passion is ever direct and simple -ever concentrated and intense, whether bright or melancholy. This defect, however, pervades only part of his songs, and those mostly written in his youth.
6. The “ Irish Melodies” are full of true feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of memory, these national strains are the most popular and the most likely to be immortal of all Moore's works. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words-graceful in thought and sentiment-often tender, pathetic, and heroic—and they blend poetical and romantic feelings with the objects and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, yet apparently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared.
SPECIMENS FROM THOMAS MOORE.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
* Pirouette (pir oo et'), a quick turning on the toes in dancing + The rivers Avon and Avoca.
II. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill; 0, no; it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
IV. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, When the storms that we feel in this cold world shall cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingleà in peace !
THERE'S NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN.
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
There's nothing true but Heaven.
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
There's nothing bright but Heaven.
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven ;
There's nothing calm but Heaven.
THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.*
They made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe !"
“ And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
When the footstep of death is near !”
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds
His path was rugged and sore,
And man never trod before !
And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
The flesh with blistering dew!
* They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.”—Anon.
And near him the she wolf stirred the brako,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, “Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,*
And the white canoe of my dear?”
He saw the lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played— “Welcome,” he said, “ my dear one's light,” And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid !
Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.
But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
And paddle their white canoe !
* The Dismal Swamp is an immense marshy tract of land, commencing near Norfolk, Virginia, and extending far into North Carolina: being about thirty miles in length and ten in width. In the midst of the Swamp is the lake here referred to-Lake Drummond, fifteen miles in circumference.
David I[Ume, the celebrated historian, was born in Edinburgh, April 26th, 1711, and died August 25th, 1776. Though designed for the law, he found greater attractions in literary pursuits than in legal studies, and so gave himself up to literature for life. He wrote on various subjects with various degrees of success; but in nothing did he succeed so well as in the writing of history. And even here, though powerful in the portraiture of character, exceedingly interesting in narrative, and all but perfect in style, he is often deficient in accuracy of detail, profoundness of research, and in the ability to resist the dominion of prejudice. As a man, though amiable in temper and exemplary in manners, he lived, as he died, a skeptic in religion.
CHARLES I., king of England and Scotland, whose trial and execution are 80 touchingly narrated in the following piece, was born in Scotland in the year 1600. His life was little else than a fierce struggle between king and people, in relation to the rights and privileges of each, and was terminated by his execution on the 30th of January, 1649.
TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES I.
1. Three times was Charles produced before the court, and as often declined their jurisdiction. On the fourth, the judges having examined some witnesses, by whom it was proved that the king had appeared in arms against the forces commissioned by the parliament, they pronounced sentence against him. He seemed very anxious at this time to be admitted to a conference with the two houses; and it was supposed that he intended to resign the crown to his son : but the court refused compliance, and considered that request as nothing but a delay of justice.
2. It is confessed, that the king's behavior during the last scene of his life does honor to his memory; and that, in all appearances before his judges, he never forgot his part, either as a prince or as a man. Firm and intrepid, he maintained, in each reply, the utmost perspicuity and justness both of thouglıt and expression; mild and equable, he rose into no passion at that unusual authority which was assumed over him. His soul, without effort or affectation, seemed only to remain in the situation familiar to it, and to look down with contempt on all the efforts of human malice and iniquity.
3 The soldiers, instigated by their superiors, were brought,