Star of the east, the horizon adorning, Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour, of all! Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gold would his favour secure; Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Nearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid! Star of the east, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION. I praised the earth, in beauty seen, I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd O God! O good beyond compare! STANZA S. If thou wert by my side, my love, If thou, my love, wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning grey, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on!-then on!-where duty leads, O'er broad Indostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain, For sweet the bliss us both awaits, By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, As then shall meet in thee! FUNERAL HYMN. Thou art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave!-we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died. Thou art gone to the grave!-and, its mansion forsaking, song. Thou art gone to the grave!-but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died. HYMN BEFORE THE SACRAMENT. Bread of the world, in mercy broken! Look on the heart by sorrow broken, And be Thy feast to us the token That by thy grace our souls are fed! THIS patriotic poet, one of those very few eminent Irishmen who have not been ashamed of their country, was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1780. At the age of fourteen, he was entered a student of Trinity College, Dublin, and there he was distinguished, not only for his classical attainments, but his excellence in poetical composition. We are told that, even so early as his twelfth year, he conceived the idea of translating the Odes of Anacreon. On the 19th of October, 1799, he entered himself a member of the Middle Temple; and in 1800, before he had completed his twentieth year, he published his long intended translation, or rather paraphrase, of the ancient Greek bard, which was so highly admired, that he was thenceforth called Anacreon Moore. In the following year, he published a volume of amatory poems under the name of Thomas Little; a work, so flagitious on the score of morality, that the public indignation was excited against it to the uttermost. The only apology for the author is, that the work was written during the passion and inexperience of youth; that he was subsequently ashamed of it; and that it was the last, as well as the first, of his trespasses of that nature. During the same year he advertised his Philosophy of Pleasure, but the work was never published. In 1803, Moore having obtained the appointment of Registrar to the Admiralty at Bermuda, embarked for that island; but he there found the duties of his office so uncongenial to his habits and inclination, that he was glad to transfer them to a deputy, reserving for himself a share of the profits. He not only however derived no emolument from this arrangement, but was subsequently exposed to pecuniary loss on account of his deputy's misconduct. In 1804, Moore returned to England, and resumed his literary avocations, continuing to publish at intervals those works, both in prose and verse, which have raised him to such a height of literary reputation. It was in 1817, that he published his largest poetical work, entitled, Lalla Rookh, in which all his stores of varied knowledge, his richness of fancy, and command of language, are concentrated. Of this delightful work it is difficult to speak, on account of the immense variety of praise that has been heaped upon it. It is enough to observe, that although Orientalism had so frequently formed a favourite topic of English poetry, no author had ever exhibited the East in such an attractive form, and with such gorgeous colouring. The next year saw a very different production from the same pen: this was The Fudge Family in Paris, a collection of letters in verse, abounding with the most pungent and comic political satire. Moore in his youth had probably conceived the idea of rising through court favour, and when he published his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, they were dedicated to the Prince of Wales. But when the prince was king, Moore was a keen oppositionist, an Irish patriot, and a derider of George the Fourth, and all his adherents. In 1823, Moore published his splendid poem, entitled, The Loves of the Angels. It was a curious coincidence that his illustrious friend Lord Byron was at the same period employed in composing The Mystery of Heaven and Earth, which was founded upon the same event. The chief fault of the poetry of Moore is, its excessive richness, so that his readers are absolutely stifled with perfumes and roses, or thrilled even to sickness with overpowering music. On this account, his short poems are valued the most, because they close when the delight of the reader is at the height. Happily for his fame, he became a national poet; and like the Scottish Burns, he has made his verses imperishable, by identifying them with the beautiful music and patriotic feelings of his native land. It is thus that, as soon as the first notes of an Irish air are sounded, the appropriate stanza of the poet, with all its exquisite pathos of feeling and melody of language, murmurs in our ears, and sinks into our hearts. Indeed, the renown of Moore will finally rest upon his Irish Melodies. His eastern houries and harems, his antediluvian seraphs, and sarcastic sketches of the court of George the Fourth, will be stale a century hence, or perhaps be forgotten in new political themes and poetical associations. But as long as Ireland exists, and wherever an Irishman is found, his national lyrics will continue to be cherished, as the language of a sacred oracie, that consoled them in sorrow, and animated them in joy. While gazing on the moon's light, Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame- That mild sphere, Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my ownWhile brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, Which bless my home and guide my way! |