"far
between," are the same thing.
___

Tom Moore is a poet of a quite different stamp. He is as heedless,
gay, and prodigal of his poetical wealth, as the other is careful,
reserved, and parsimonious. The genius of both is national. Mr. Moore's
Muse is another Ariel, as light, as tricksy, as indefatigable, and as
humane a spirit. His fancy is for ever on the wing, flutters in the
gale, glitters in the sun. Every thing lives, moves, and sparkles in his
poetry, while over all love waves his purple light. His thoughts are as
restless, as many, and as bright as the insects that people the sun's
beam. "So work the honey-bees," extracting liquid sweets from opening
buds; so the butterfly expands its wings to the idle air; so the
thistle's silver down is wafted over summer seas. An airy voyager on
life's stream, his mind inhales the fragrance of a thousand shores, and
drinks of endless pleasures under halcyon skies. Wherever his footsteps
tend over the enamelled ground of fairy fiction--

"Around him the bees in play flutter and cluster,
And gaudy butterflies frolic around."

The fault of Mr. Moore is an exuberance of involuntary power. His
facility of production lessens the effect of, and hangs as a dead weight
upon, what he produces. His levity at last oppresses. The infinite
delight he takes in such an infinite number of things, creates
indifference in minds less susceptible of pleasure than his own. He
exhausts attention by being inexhaustible. His variety cloys; his
rapidity dazzles and distracts the sight. The graceful ease with which
he lends himself to every subject, the genial spirit with which he
indulges in every sentiment, prevents him from giving their full force
to the masses of things, from connecting them into a whole. He wants
intensity, strength, and grandeur. His mind does not brood over the
great and permanent; it glances over the surfaces, the first impressions
of things, instead of grappling with the deep-rooted prejudices of the
mind, its inveterate habits, and that "perilous stuff that weighs upon
the heart." His pen, as it is rapid and fanciful, wants momentum and
passion. It requires the same principle to make us thoroughly like
poetry, that makes us like ourselves so well, the feeling of continued
identity. The impressions of Mr. Moore's poetry are detached, desultory,
and physical. Its gorgeous colours brighten and fade like the rainbow's.
Its sweetness evaporat