f it requires to be demonstrated
as such; and thus, to point out too particularly the merits of a work
of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether.

Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore, is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
view. I allude to his lines beginning: "Come, rest in this bosom."
The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed
that embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of love--a
sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more
passionate, human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied
in words:--

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,--
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore imagination, while
granting him fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is
that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced,
very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there
a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true
poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no
poem more profoundly, more weirdly _imaginative_, in the best sense,
than the lines commencing: "I would I were by that dim lake," which are
the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember
them.

One of the noblest--and, speaking of fancy, one of the most singularly
fanciful--of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had
always, for me, an inexpressible charm:--

O saw ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest;
S