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If this be wisdom, then farewell my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth, that now must stagnate there ! -
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For Liberty, which once awak'd my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder ev'n than He of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny !
Instead of him, th’ Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtrayed,
And, 'stead of ARISTIDES—woe the day
Such names should mingle !-welcome C-

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Here break we off, at this unhallow'd name,
Like priests of old, when words ill-omen'd came.
My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell,
Thoughts that-could patience hold—'twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are !

NAPOLEON AFTER WATERLOO.
Yes~'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate-
A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,
And own no power but of the Nation's choice !
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on NAPOLEON's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrement, that pour'd
In patriot eyes a light around his sword,
A glory then, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illum'd its way!
Oh! 'twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates ;
When he, who fled before your chieftain's eye,
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus ily,

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Denounced against the land, that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's kings, that never yet combin'd
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoin'd
Shed war and pestilence) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appall’d to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty !-
No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might
To waste the hour of action in dispute,
And coolly plan how Freedom's boughs should shoot,
When your Invader's axe was at the root !
No, sacred Liberty ! that God who throws
Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee, and how deeply hate
All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate
Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,
I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,
NAPOLEON, NERO—ay, no matter whom-
To snatch my country from that damning doom,
That deadliest curse, that on the conquer'd waits-
A conqueror's satrap thron'd within her gates !

GERALD GRIFFIN'S VISIT TO MOORE.

In the latter part of the year 1832 an address was adopted by some of the most influential of the electors of Limerick, calling on Moore to come forward as a candidate for the representation of that city. The address was numerously and respectably signed. Gerald Griffin was requested to be the bearer of the communication to Moore. The poet declined the honour, on the ground that his numerous literary engagements prevented him from expecting to attend to parliamentary duties. Griffin relates the particulars of this visit to Moore in a graphic letter written a short time afterwards.

After stating that he and his brother slept at Devizes, (near which town Sloperton Cottage, Moore's residence, was situated), Griffin thus continues :

“In the morning we hired the grand cabriolet and set off to Sloperton; drizzling rain, but a delightful country ; such a gentle shower as that through which we looked at Innisfallen—a farewell look. And we drove away till we came to a cottage, a cottage of gentility, with two gateways and pretty grounds about it, and we alighted and knocked at the hall door, and there was dead silence and we whispered one another; and my nerves thrilled as the wind rustled in the creeping shrubs that graced the retreat of Moore. OLthere's no use talking, but I must be fine. I wonder I ever stood it at all, and I an Irishman too, and singing his songs since I was the height of my knee-The Veiled Prophet ;'' Azim ;''She is far from the Land ;' Those evening Belís.' But the door opened, and a young woman appeared, * Is Mr. Moore at home?' I'll see, sir. What name shall I say, sir?' Well, not to be too particular, we were shown up stairs, where we found the nightingale in his cage; in honester language, and more to the purpose, we found our hero in his study, à table before him covered with books and papers.

a drawer half

open

and stuffed with letters, a piano, also open at a little distance; and the thief himself, a little man, but full of spirit, with eyes, hands, feet, and frame, for ever in motion, looking as if it would be a feat for him to sit for three minutes quiet in his chair. I am no great observer of proportions; but he seemed to me to be a neat made little fellow, tidily buttoned up, young as fifteen at heart, though with hair that reminded me of the · Alps in the sunset;' not handsome, perhaps, but something in the whole cut of him that pleased me: finished as an actor, but without an actor's affectation; easy as a gentleman, but without some gentlemen's formality ; in a word as people say when they find their brains begin to run aground at the fag end of a magnificent period, we found him a hospitable, warmhearted Irishman, as pleasant as could be himself, and disposed to make others so. And is this enough ? and need I tell you that the day was spent delightfully, chiefly in listening to his innumerable jests, and admirable stories and beautiful similes_beautiful and original as those he throws into his songs and anecdotes, that would make the Danes laugh ; and how we did all we could, I believe, to get him to stand for Limerick; and how we called again the day after, and walked with him about his little garden ; and how he told us that he always wrote walking, and how we came in again and took luncheon, and how I was near forgetting that it was Friday (which you know I am rather apt to do in pleasant company), and how he walked with us through the fields, and wished

“good bye,” and left us to do as well as we could without him.”

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Of this interesting meeting between Moore and Griffin we have the following additional particulars in the Life of Griffin by his brother. The sketch presents many pleasing traits of the domestic life of the poet. The letter referred to near the end of the following extract is that from which we have above presented some passages :

“It was early in the month of November when we arrived at Sloperton Cottage, Mr. Moore's residence. We had the good fortune to find him at home, and were immediately shown up stairs, where we were received with such warm cordiality, such earnest and unaffected kindness, such a truly Irish welcome, as it would be impossible to forget. The object of our visit being explained, he immediately entered upon it; said he feared he should be obliged to decline, but would not give a positive answer until next day; requested us to remain to dinner, a proposition to which we gladly assented, and begging to be excused for returning to some matters of importance, which our entrance had interrupted, left us for an hour or so to our musings.

“Mr. Moore has been often spoken of, as one whose wit and liveliness in conversation shed a lustre on any society he enters; but he must be seen in his own house, and among his own immediate friends, to have the charm of his manner thoroughly felt and appreciated.

The only person we met at dinner besides Mr. and Mrs. Moore, was a Mr. who seemed very intimate with the family, and who we afterwards understood was gay and sprightly beyond all previous custom. Mr. Moore was fond of anecdote, and full of it; espe

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