The living lumber of his kindred earth,
Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth;
Feels thy dread power another heart afford,
Whose passion-touch'd harmonious strings accord,
True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan;
And man, the brother, lives the friend of man.”

THE FINAL TRIUMPH OF HOPE.

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Peal'd their first notes1 to sound the march of time,
Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade.-
When all the sister planets have decay'd;
When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow,

And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

II.

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

111.

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.

1 See note 3, p. 427.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

IV.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;—

Then cease-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

VII.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died

With the gallant good Riou ;—

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

1 Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches."

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,

And friend to more than human friendship just.

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart;

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove

With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,-
If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none
In future times-no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, even when life's last pulses run,

A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!

THOMAS MOORE, the modern poetical glory of Ireland, was born in Dublin, of Roman Catholic parents, whose opinions were apparently on the extreme side of what have been termed patriotic Irish politics; and, as might be expected, enthusiasm for his country's elevation and true national position, is accordingly a feature conspicuous in his writings.

No age has been more remarkable than the present for the absence of literary jealousy among men of genius: the wars of Dryden and Shadwell, of Jonson and Marston, of Dunbar and Kennedy, are dead and gone, with the raids and forays of our feudal ancestors. All the great poets of the last fifty years' have formed a generous and noble inter-association of friendship, good offices, and good opinion. "It is meet that noble minds keep

1 Perhaps no man could number so many distinguished literary friends as Mr Rogers.

ever with their likes:" the present and late poets of England have obeyed this canon of their great predecessor with generous enthusiasm. Lockhart's biography of Scott, and Beattie's of Campbell, show this feature most dis tinctly and prominently; and Mr Moore's biography, in so far as we know it from himself, displays the same lineament.

The poet now reposes in a retreat in Wiltshire, after a life of great industry, brilliancy, and success in literature. Like some of our elder “ Fathers of the Lyre," Mr Moore has seemed to wind up the affairs of his muse by the publication of his collected poetical works. His largest work. “Lalla Rookh," is constructed on the principle followed by Boccaccio, and exemplified in Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales," and Hogg's “Queen's Wake;" the narrative connecting the tales is in prose. These are oriental stories, full of gorgeous and glittering Eastern scenery, wonderful for the exactness and extent of the learning they display, brilliant in invention and incident, and redolent with the luxury of the climes in which they are cast. Another considerable work, beautiful, but much less pure in spirit, is "The Loves of the Angels," founded on a common interpretation of Gen. vi. 2. The poet translated Anacreon, a kindred spirit of antiquity: and his own little lyrics, especially the Irish Melodies, are probably destined to prove the most lastingly popular of his poetic efforts. His political squibs are full of elegant and sparkling wit. In Mr Moore's poetry, the reader is delighted with the butterfly sportiveness of his fancy over regions of perpetual sunshine, or moved with the tenderness of love and pity, or roused with the trumpet voice of patriotism and liberty: but the perpetual glare of splendour fatigues; and the aim of his writings is limited and local. In prose, among other works, Mr Moore is the author of biographies of Sheridan and of Byron, and of the Eastern romance, "The Epicurean.”

FROM LALLA ROOKH."

(PARADISE AND THE PERI.3)

EGYPTIAN SCENERY-THE PLAGUE.

Now among Afric's lunar Mountains,

Far to the south, the Peri lighted;

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains

Of that Egyptian tide-whose birth

Is hidden from the sons of earth,

Deep in those solitary woods,

Where oft the Genii of the Floods

Southey, Wordsworth, Montgomery, Moore, all of late years published collected editions of their works.

2 As is also Byron's "Heaven and Earth."

3 Peris (Fairies), "those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and inhabit" beneath the dark sea," who lost heaven with Eblis (Lucifer) and his adherent rebel spirits. The Peri of the poem, sighing at the celestial portals over her lost paradise, is told by the angel who was keeping the Gates of Light," that bliss may be regained by bringing the gift that is most dear to Heaven." She proceeds over the earth in her search, and brings successively, the last blood-drop of a dying patriot on the battle field; the last sigh of a faithful lover, who sacrifices himself with his mistress, perishing of the plague in Egypt; and the tear of a repentant sinner: the third gift obtains the Peri's object. The extract is taken from the second errand of the Peri.

Dance round the cradle of their Nile,
And hail the new-born Giant's1 smile.
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves,

Her grots, and sepulchres of kings,
The exiled spirit sighing roves;
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's2 vale-now loves

To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris' Lake.3
'Twas a fair scene-a land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!
Who could have thought, that saw,

this night,

Those valleys and their fruits of gold
Basking in Heav'n's serenest light ;—
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds ;—
Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beanties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright
When their beloved Sun's awake;-
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,

Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting

Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)

Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting

Upon a column, motionless,

And glittering like an idol bird !-

Who could have thought, that there, ev'n there,

Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red Desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing,

Of human shape, touch'd by his wing,

1 Lunar; "the Montes Lunae of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to rise "-Bruce. "Sometimes," says Jackson, " called Jibbel Kumrie, or the white or lunar-coloured mountains; so a white horse is called by the Arabians a moon-coloured horse."-Giant; the Nile is so called by the Abyssinians.

2 Rosetta, the Italianized name of Raschid, the town at the ancient Bolbitic mouth of the Nile Italian names are frequent in the geography of the Levant, from the commercial intercourse of the republics of Italy with these countries.

To the west of the Nile, in the Oasis of Faioum; the lake, or the canal which led to

it, is said to have been dug by a king of the same namie.

That beautiful bird-the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana "-Sonnini.