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exquisitely beautiful not to be given here by me, such as she sang it on the deck of the vessel that wafted her away from the scenes of her youth and the blessings of friendship, to seek the dismal regions of bleak barbarity and murderous anaticism. I also give it because Tommy has modelled on st his melody, As slow our ship its foamy track," and Byron his “ Native land, good night!" Adieu, plaisant pays de France ! “ Farewell fair land, Oh, ma patrie la plus chérie,
Mine heart's countrie ! Qui as nourri ma jeune enfance- Where girlhood planned Adieu, France ! adieu, mes beaux Its wild freaks free. jours !
The bark that bears
A Queen to Scots,
In twain but tears
Her who allots
Her dearer half to thee : Pour que de l'autre, uvienne !" Keep, keep her memorie !"
I now come to a more serious charge. To plunder the French is all right; but to rob his own countrymen is what the late Lord Liverpool would call “ too bad.” I admit the claims of the poet on the gratitude of the aboriginal Irish; for glorious Dan might bave exerted his leathern lungs during a century in haranguing the native sans culottes on this side of the Channel; but had not the “ Melodies” made emancipation palatable to the thinking and generous portion of Britain's free-born sons-had not bis poetry spoken to the hearts of the great ard the good, and enlisted the fair daughters of England, the spouters would have been but objects of scorn and contempt. The " Melodies” won the cause silently, imperceptibly, effectually; and if there be a tribute due from that class of the native, it is to the child of song. Poets, however, are always destined to be poor; and such used to be the case with patriots too, until the rint opened the eyes of the public, and taught them that even that sacred and exalted passion, love of country, could resolve itself, through an Irish alembic, into an ardent love for the copper currency of one's native land. The dagger of Harmodius, which used to be concealed under a wreath of myrtle, is now-a-days hidden within the cavity of a church-door begging-box: and Tom Moore can only ciaim the second part of the cele. orated line of Virgil, as the first evidently refers to Mr O'Connell;
“Ære ciere viros-Martemque accendere cantu." But I am digressing from the serious charge I mean to bring against the author of that beautiful melody, “ The Shamrock.” Does not Tom Moore know that there was such a thing in France as the Irish brigade ? and does he not fear and tremble lest the ghosts of that valiant crew, whom he has robbed of their due honours, should, “in the stilly night, when slumber's chains have bound him," drag his small carcass to the Styx, and give him a well-merited sousing? For why should he exhibit as his production their favourite song ? and what ineffable audacity to pawn off on modern drawing-rooms as his own that glorious carol which made the tents of Fontenoy ring with its exhilarating music, and which old General Stack, who lately died at Calais, used to sing so gallantly ?
Le Trefle d'Frlande.
The Shamrock. Chanson de la Brigade, 1748. A“ Melody" of Tom Moore's, 1813. Un jour en Hybernie,
Through Erin's isle, D'Amour le beau génie
To sport awhile, Et le dieu de la VALEUR firent ren- As Lovo and Valour wander'd contre
With Wit the sprite, Avec le “BEL ESPRIT,"
Whose quiver bright Ce drôle qui se rit
A thousand arrows squander'd : De tout ce qui lui vient à l'encontre; Where'er they pass, Partout leur pas reveille*
A triple grass Une herbe à triple feuille, Shoots up, with dew-drops streamQue la nuit humecta de ses pleurs, ing, Et que la douce aurore
As softly green Fraichement fait éclorre,
As emeralds seen De l'emeraude elle a les couleurs. Through purest crystal gleaming. Vive le tréfle!
O the shamrock! Vive le vert gazon !
The green immortal shamrock! De la patrie, terre chérie !
Chosen leaf of bard and chiefL'emblème est bel et bon !
Old Erin's native shamrock! VALEUR, d’un ton superbe,
Says Valour,“ See! S'écrie, “Pour moi cette herbe They spring for me. Crôit sitôt qu'elle me voit ici pa- Those leafy gems of morning ;" raître;"
• Alia lectio : purtout leur main recueille.
AMOUR lui dit, “Non, non,
Says Love, “No, no,
For me they grow, Honore en ces bijoux qu'il fait My fragrant path adorning." naître :"
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
A type that blends
The green immortal shamrock!
Chosen leaf of bard and chief, Vive le vert gazon !
Old Erin's native shamrock ! De la patrie, terre chérie!
L'emblème est bel et bon!
Prions le Ciel qu'il dure
So firm and fond Ce neud, où la nature
May last the bond Voudrait voir une éternelle alliance; They wove that morn together ; Que nul vénin jamais
And ne'er may fall N'empoisonne les traits
One drop of gall Qu'à l'entour si gaiement l'ESPRIT On Wit's celestial feather! lance !
May Love, as shoot Que nul tyran ne rêve
His flowers and fruit, D’user le noble glaive
Of thorny falsehood weed them ; De la VALEUR contre la liberté ;
Let Valour ne'er
His standard rear
Against the cause of freedom, Sur l'autel de la fidélité !
Or of the shamrock, Vive le tréfle!
The green immortal shan rock! Vive le vert gazon!
Chosen leaf of bard and chief, De la patrie, terre chérie !
Old Erin's native shamrock ! L'emblème est bel et bon !
Molière has written a pleasant and instructive comedy entitled the Fourberies de Scapin, which I recommend to Tom's perusal ; and in the “spelling-book” which I used to con over when at the hedge-school with my fosterbrother George Knapp, who has since risen to eminence as mayor of Cork, but with whom I used then to share the reading of the “Universal Spelling-Book" (having but one between us), there is an awful story about “ Tommy and Harry," very capable of deterring youthful minds from evil practices, especially the large wood-cut representing a lion tearing the stomach of the luckless wight who led a career of wickedness. Had Tommy Moore been brought up properly (as Knapp and I were), he would not have committed
so many depredations, which he ought to know would be discovered on him at last, and cause him bitterly to repent his “rogueries.”
With all my sense of indignation, unabated and unmitigated at the unfairness with which O'Brien “ of the round towers” has been treated, and which has prompted me to make disclosures which would have otherwise slept with me in the grave, I must do Moore the justice to applaud his accurate, spirited, and sometimes exquisite translations from recondite MSS. and other totally unexplored writings of antiquity. I felt it my duty, in the course of these strictures, to denounce the version of Anacreon as a total failure, cnly to be accounted for by the extreme youth and inexperience of the subsequently matured and polished melodist; but there is an obscure Greek poet, called Στακκος Μορφιδης, whose ode on whisky, or negus, composed about the sixteenth olympiad, according to the chronology of Archbishop Usher, he has splendidly and most literally rendered into English Anacreontic verse, thus :
On Whisky or Negus.
By Moore. .
Στακκου Μορφιδεος ισχυς.
(Stat nominis umbra.) Στεψωμεν ουν κυπελλον Τοις ανθεμοισι ψυχης, Τοις φερτατοις φρενες γ' α “Ημιν δυναιντ' εφευρειν. Ταυτη γαρ ουρανoνδε Τη νυκτι δει πετάσθαι, Ταυτην λιποντες αιαν. Ει γ' ουν Ερως λαθοιτο Τοις στεμματεσσ’ & Τερψις “Ημιν μαγος διδωσιν, Ουπω φοβος γενοιτο, “Ως γαρ παρεστιν οινος, Βαψωμεν ειχε κεντεϊ.
Wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
Should Love amid
The wreath be hid,
No danger fear
While wine is near--
Then wreathe the bowl, &c. &o,
“Ως μοι λεγουσι, νεκταρ
'Twas nectar fed
Of old, 'tis said,
And man may brew
His nectar too-
Λουτων λαβοντες οινον,
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Then bring wit's beam
To warm the stream
Then wreathe the bowl, &c. &c.
Τιπτ' ουν Χρονος γε ψαμμη
Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,
Ο lend it us, ,
And, smiling, thus
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
Then wreathe the bowl, &c. &c.
Such carefully finished translations as this from Στακκος, , in which not an idea or beauty of the Greek is lost in the English version, must necessarily do Tommy infinite credit; and the only drawback on the abundant praise which I should otherwise feel inclined to bestow on the Anacreontic versifier, is the fatal neglect, or perhaps wilful treachery, which has led him to deny or suppress the sources of his inspiration, and induced him to appear in the discreditable fashion of an Irish jackdaw in the borrowed plumage of a Grecian peacock. The splendour of poesy, like “ Malachy's collar of gold,” is round bis neck; but he won it from a stranger: the green glories of the emerald adorn his glowing crest—or, as Phædrus says,
“ Nitor smaragdi collo refulget tuo—" but if
you ruffle his feathers a little, you will find that his literary toilette is composed of what the French coiffeurs call des ornemens postiches; and that there was never a more called-for declaration than the avowal which he himseli makes in one of his Melodies, when, talking of the wild strains of the Irish harp, he admits, he " was but the wind