FullReads

On our side is virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and guilt–

(which carries with it the delightful reflection that it was an Irishman running away with an Irishwoman that occasioned this sweeping moral contrast) must be given up; but surely not so “Oh had we some bright little Isle of our own.” For indeed if one only had some bright little isle of that kind, some rive fidele ou l’on aime toujours, and where things in general are adjusted to such a state, then would Thomas Moore be the Laureate of that bright and tight little island.

But it is alarming to find that we have not yet got through twenty-five pages out of some hundred or two, and that the Irish Melodies are not yet nearly exhausted. Not a few of the best known of Moore’s songs, including “Oft in the stilly Night,” are to be found in the division of National Airs, which is as a whole a triumph of that extraordinary genius for setting which has been already noticed. Here is “Flow on thou shining River,” here the capital “When I touch the String,” on which Thackeray loved to make variations. But “Oft in the stilly Night” itself is far above the others. We do not say “stilly” now: we have been taught by Coleridge (who used to use it freely himself before he laughed at it) to laugh at “stilly” and “paly” and so forth. But the most acrimonious critic may be challenged to point out another weakness of the same kind, and on the whole the straightforward simplicity of the phrase equals the melody of the rhythm.

The Sacred Songs need not delay us long; for they are not better than sacred songs in general, which is saying remarkably little. Perhaps the most interesting thing in them is the well-known couplet,

This world is but a fleeting show
For man’s illusion given–

which, as has justly been observed, contains one of the most singular estimates of the divine purpose anywhere to be found. But Moore might, like Mr. Midshipman Easy, have excused himself by remarking, “Ah! well, I don’t understand these things.” The miscellaneous division of Ballads, Songs, etc., is much more fruitful. “The Leaf and the Fountain,” beginning “Tell me, kind seer, I pray thee,” though rather long, is singularly good of its kind–the kind of half-narrative ballad. So in a lighter strain is “The Indian Bark.” Nor is Moore less at home after his own fashion in the songs from the Anthology. It is true that the same fault which has been found with his Anacreon may be found here, and that it is all the more sensible because at least in some cases the originals are much higher poetry than the pseudo-Teian. To the form and style of Meleager Moore could not pretend; but as these are rather songs on Greek motives than translations from the Greek, the slackness and dilution matter less. But the strictly miscellaneous division holds some of the best work. We could no doubt dispense with the well-known ditty (for once very nearly the “rubbish” with which Moore is so often and so unjustly charged) where Posada rhymes of necessity to Granada, and where, quite against the author’s habit, the ridiculous term “Sultana” is fished out to do similar duty in reference to the Dulcinea, or rather to the Maritornes, of a muleteer. But this is quite an exception, and as a rule the facile verse is as felicitous as it is facile. Perhaps no one stands out very far above the rest; perhaps all have more or less the mark of easy variations on a few well-known themes. The old comparison that they are as numerous as motes, as bright, as fleeting, and as individually insignificant, comes naturally enough to the mind. But then they are very numerous, they are very bright, and if they are fleeting, their number provides plenty more to take the place of that which passes away. Nor is it by any means true that they lack individual significance.