The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore | Page 5

in 1830, and one of more enduring interest to posterity, was
the Life of Byron. This is a very fascinating book; but more--which is
indeed a matter of course--in virtue of the lavish amount of Byron's
own writing which it embodies than, on account of the
Memoir-compiler's doings. However, there is a considerable share of
good feeling in the book, as well as matter of permanent value from the
personal knowledge that Moore had of Byron; and the avoidance of
"posing" and of dealing with the subject for purposes of effect, in the
case of a man whose career and genius lent themselves so insidiously to

such a treatment, is highly creditable to the biographer's good sense and
taste. The Life of Byron succeeded, in the list of Moore's writings, a
History of Ireland, contributed in 1827 to Lardner's Cyclopaedia_, and
the Travels of an Irishman in Search of a Religion_, published in the
same year: and was followed by a _Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald_,
issued in 1881. This, supplemented by some minor productions, closes
the sufficiently long list of writings of an industrious literary life.
In his latter years Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes in
Wiltshire, Where he was near the refined social circle of Lord
Lansdowne at Bowood, as well as the lettered home of the Rev. Mr.
Bowles at Bremhill. Domestic sorrows clouded his otherwise cheerful
and comfortable retirement. One of his sons died in the French military
service in Algeria; another of consumption in 1842. For some years
before his own death, which occurred on the 25th of February 1853, his
mental powers had collapsed. He sleeps in Bromham Cemetery, in the
neighborhood of Sloperton.
Moore had a very fair share of learning, as well as steady application,
greatly as he sacrificed to the graces of life, and especially of "good
society." His face was not perhaps much more impressive in its contour
than his diminutive figure. His eyes, however, were dark and fine; his
forehead bony, and with what a phrenologist would recognize as large
bumps of wit; the mouth pleasingly dimpled. His manner and talk were
bright, abounding rather in lively anecdote and point than in wit and
humor, strictly so called. To term him amiable according to any
standard, and estimable too as men of an unheroic fibre go, is no more
than his due.
No doubt the world has already seen the most brilliant days of Moore's
poetry. Its fascinations are manifestly of the more temporary sort:
partly through fleetingness of subject-matter and evanescence of
allusion (as in the clever and still readable satirical poems); partly
through the aroma of sentimental patriotism, hardly strong enough in
stamina to make the compositions national, or to maintain their high
level of popularity after the lyrist himself has long been at rest; partly
through the essentially commonplace sources and forms of inspiration

which belong to his more elaborate and ambitious works. No poetical
reader of the present day is the poorer for knowing absolutely nothing
of Lalla Rookh_ or the Loves of the Angels_. What then will be the
hold or the claim of these writings upon a reader of the twenty-first
century? If we expect the satirical compositions, choice in a different
way, the best things of Moore are to be sought in the Irish Melodies, to
which a considerable share of merit, and of apposite merit, is not to be
denied: yet even here what deserts around the oases, and the oases
themselves how soon exhaustible and forgettable! There are but few
thoroughly beautiful and touching lines in the whole of Moore's poetry.
Here is one--
"Come rest in this bosom, mine own stricken deer."
A great deal has been said upon the overpowering "lusciousness" of his
poetry, and the magical "melody" of his verse: most of this is futile.
There is in the former as much of fadeur as of lusciousness; and a
certain tripping or trotting exactitude, not less fully reducible to the test
of scansion than of a well-attuned ear, is but a rudimentary form of
melody--while of harmony or rhythmic volume of sound Moore is as
decisively destitute as any correct versifier can well be. No clearer
proof of the incapacity of the mass of critics and readers to appreciate
the calibre of poetical work in point of musical and general execution
could be given than the fact that Moore has always with them passed,
and still passes, for an eminently melodious poet. What then remains?
Chiefly this. In one class of writing, liveliness of witty banter, along
with neatness; and, in the other and ostensibly more permanent class,
elegance, also along with neatness. Reduce these qualities to one
denomination, and we come to something that may be called
"Propriety": a sufficiently disastrous "raw material" for the purposes