and stationer in the city.
His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters,
and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of
their custom.

In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical
Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The
Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One,
and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d
January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the
support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a
massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal
friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore
is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets.
Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of
feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is
everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has
chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest
illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his
Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary
popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.

RISE, MY LOVE.

Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,
Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;
Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,
Hynda comes to set thee free!
Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,
On the long and dreaming deep;
A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,
Where our eyes may cease to weep.

Oh! some little isle of gladness,
Smiling in the waters clear,
Where the dreary tone of sadness
Never smote the lonely ear--
Soon will greet us, and deliver
Souls so true, to freedom's plan;
Death may sunder us, but never
Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.

Then our lute's exulting numbers,
Unrestrain'd will wander on,
While the night has seal'd in slumbers,
Fair creation, all her own.
And we'll wed, while music stealeth
Through the starry fields above,
While each bounding spirit feeleth
All the luxury of love.

Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,
All the despot's bolts and powers;
While Time wreathes his heavy pinions
With love's brightest passion-flowers.
Rise, then! let us fly together,