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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
La nef qui déjoint mes amours

A Queen to Scots,
N'a ici de moi que la moitié ;

In twain but tears
Une part te reste, elle est tienne,

Her who allots
Je la fie à ton amitié-

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. AMelody" 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,
C'est moi

que le

For me they grow, Honore en ces bijoux qu'il fait My fragrant path adorning." naître :"

But Wit perceives
Mais BEL ESPRIT dirige

The triple leaves,
Sur l'herbe à triple tige And cries, “0, do not sever
Un wil observateur, à son tour,

A type that blends
Pourquoi,” dit-il, “ défaire Three godlike friends-
Un næud si beau, qui serre Wit, Valour, Love, for ever."
En ce type ESPRIT, VALEUR, et O the shamrock!

The green immortal shamrock!
Vive le tréfle !

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
Et que l'AMOUR suspende

His standard rear
Sa plus belle guirlande

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
The brightest wit can find us ;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

Should Love amid

The wreath be hid,
That joy th’ enchanter brings us ;

No danger fear

While wine is near--
We'll drown him if he stings us.

Then wreathe the bowl, &c. &o,

Ως μοι λεγουσι, νεκταρ
Παλαι επινον “ΗΡΑΙ
Εξεστι και βρoτoισιν
“Ημι: ποιειν το νεκταρ
Ποιητεον γαρ ώδε:

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;

And man may brew

His nectar too-
The rich receipt's as follows :

Λουτων λαβοντες οινον,
Του χαρματος προσωπους
Αμφι σκυφος στεφοντες,
Τοτε φρενων φαεινην
Ποτω χεοντες αυγην,
Ιδου, παρεστι νεκταρ.

Take wine like this,

Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended ;

Then bring wit's beam

To warm the stream
And there's your nectar splendid.

Then wreathe the bowl, &c. &c.

Τιπτ' ουν Χρονος γε ψαμμη
Την κλεψυδραν επλησε
Την αγλαην αεικει;
Ευ μεν γαρ οιδεν οινον
Ταχυτερον διαρρειν,
Στιλπνωτερον τε λαμπειν"
Δος ουν. δος ημιν αυτην,
Και μειδιωντες ούτως
Την κλεψυδραν σχισαντες,
Ποιησομεν γε διπλω
Ρεϊν ηδονην ρεεθρω
Εμπλησομεν δ' έταιροι
Aμφω κυτή ες αιει.

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,

Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?

Ο lend it us, ,

And, smiling, thus
The glass in two we'd sever,

Make pleasure glide

In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever.

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

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