her than
Thomas Moore. True that Robert Burns has indited many songs that slip
into the heart, just like light, no one knows how, filling its chambers
sweetly and silently, and leaving it nothing more to desire for perfect
contentment. Or let us say, sometimes when he sings, it is like
listening to a linnet in the broom, a blackbird in the brake, a laverock
in the sky. They sing in the fulness of their joy, as nature teaches
them--and so did he; and the man, woman, or child, who is delighted not
with such singing, be their virtues what they may, must never hope to be
in Heaven. Gracious Providence placed Burns in the midst of the sources
of Lyrical Poetry--when he was born a Scottish peasant. Now, Moore is an
Irishman, and was born in Dublin. Moore is a Greek scholar, and
translated--after a fashion--Anacreon. And Moore has lived much in towns
and cities--and in that society which will suffer none else to be called
good. Some advantages he has enjoyed which Burns never did--but then how
many disadvantages has he undergone, from which the Ayrshire Ploughman,
in the bondage of his poverty, was free! You see all that at a single
glance in their poetry. But all in humble life is not high--all in high
life is not low; and there is as much to guard against in hovel as in
hall--in "auld clay-bigging" as in marble palace. Burns sometimes wrote
like a mere boor--Moore has too often written like a mere man of
fashion. But take them both at their best--and both are inimitable. Both
are national poets--and who shall say, that if Moore had been born and
bred a peasant, as Burns was, and if Ireland had been such a land of
knowledge, and virtue, and religion as Scotland is--and surely, without
offence, we may say that it never was, and never will be--though we love
the Green Island well--that with his fine fancy, warm heart, and
exquisite sensibilities, he might not have been as natural a lyrist as
Burns; while, take him as he is, who can deny that in richness, in
variety, in grace, and in the power of art, he is superior to the
ploughman. Of "Lalla Rookh" and "The Loves of the Angels," we defy you
to read a page without admiration; but the question recurs, and it is
easily answered, we need not say in the negative, did Moore ever write a
Great Poem?

Let us make a tour of the Lakes. Rydal Mount! Wordsworth! The Bard! Here
is the man who has devoted his whole life to poetry. It is his
profession. He is a poet just as his brother is a