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When young, I loved, at that delicious age
Moore's damning sin, according to thecritics, is levity; but surely if he were even cursed or blessed with greater frailtics and weaknesses than other men, the following lines should be more than a sufficient atonement for all his transgressions. We have no hesitation to say, that the sentiments are conceived with a delicacy of feeling and a chastity of imagination, and that the terms of the language in which they are expressed, are selected with a nicety and accuracy of discrimination, which not only places the poet beyond the vulgar bounds of the critic, but to the beauties, of which no critic can do adequate justice. There is a beauty in sentiment and fine feeling, which can neither be analysed nor explained, while the faults of writers lie always on the surface, and consequently can be laid hold on, and held up to public derision. Deformity is always a protuberance which lies on the exterior of bodies, but beauty is a gem which retires from the public gaze, and modestly conceals itself from the stupid stare of those who can neither discriminate its perceptions, nor become sensible of its charms. No wonder, then, that critics should eternally dwell on the faults of writers, and be eternally blind to their redeeming beauties, because the former are gross and palpable, the latter visible only to the eye of genius. The Edinburgh Review professed, at its commencement, to review only works of merit; and yet who could imagine from its system of reviewing, that a work of merit ever fell into the hands of its conductor?.-ED.
“I may be cold-may want that glow
I fear, I feel, I have it not,
The charms of this delightful spot--
From all the heart would fain forget, This narrow valley, and the song,
Of its small murmuring rivulet-The flitting, to and fro, of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden, ere the startling words
Of man disturbed their orisons! Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hill side, with fruit trees lined, And lighted only by the breaks
wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows like the snatches Of far off scenes of light, which hope
Ev’n through the shade of sadness catches !
All this, which could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Of genius, can no more disguise,
heart With thoughts of all that happiest isOf love, where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's bliss.
Our sympathies with human woe,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ—
The moonlight of the morning's joy! All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those hateful memories near, Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife, And vanities of that man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glow'd,
With fancy's flame (and it was his, If ever given to mortal) show'd
What an imposter genius is
How, with that strong, mimetic art,
Which is its life and soul, it takes
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes-
O’er the dark path, by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm, the while,
As crawls along the sullying sodWhat sensibility may fall
From its false lip, what plans to bless, While homc, friends, kindred, country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness. How, with the pencil hardly dry
From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,
And dream, and think through heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Some Mamau's or Theresa's arms!
Sounding her timbrels to set free
Of priestcraft and of slavery,
As ever Lord or Patron made,
Like stunted brushwood, in his shade! Out on the craft!-I'd rather be
One of those hinds that round me tread,
With just enough of sense to see
The noon-day sun that's o'er my head,
That hath no heart for its foundation,
THE ENCHANTED FLUTE,
With other Poems, and Fables from La Fontaine.
By E. P. Wolferstan.
A Critic, commenting on the following beautiful lines, professes to admire the image conveyed by
The play Of moonlight on the wave. We should admire it also if we did not know it to be a copy of a still more beautiful image.
How sweet the moonbeam sleeps on yonder bank. The imitation is so obvious that we could not profess to admire it without becoming imitators ourselves, for this image has been admired over and over by the critics. At the same time, we do not find fault with its introduction here in a new dress, and we consider the entire passage exceedingly tender and poetic.
Beats there a heart no care is near