Will stand upon that awful day,
When the Ark's light aloft unfurl'd,
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MOUNT BLANC, thou wert to me
That minute, with thy brow in heaven
As sure a sign of Deity

As e'er to mortal gaze was given.

Nor ever, were I destined yet

To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deep-felt awe forget,

The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of pow'r
And life, beyond this mortal hour,-
Those mountings of the soul within
As thoughts of heav'n-as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame--oh! bitter shame!
At having risk'd that splendid right,
For aught that earth through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!

'Twas all this, at that instant brought Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought; 'Twas all this, kindled to a glow

Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine Thus purely ever, man might grow,

Ev'n upon earth a thing divine, And be, once more, the creature made To walk unstain'd the Elysian shade!

No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in that bright place.
And should my spirit's hope still grow,
Should I, O God, e'er doubt thy pow'r,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,

At the same calm and glowing hour,

And here, at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever reared to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!

VENICE.

Mourn not for Venice-let her rest
In ruin 'mong those states unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled Freedom died.
No-let us keep our tears for them,

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been Not from a blood-stained diadem,

Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen; But from high daring in the cause

Of human rights-the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for Venice; though her fall
Be awful as if ocean's wave
Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,
And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish every king and state,
That runs the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill, and only great
By outrage against God and man!

MARY MAGDALENE.

No wonder, Mary, that thy story
Touches all hearts, for there we see
The soul's corruption and its glory,

Its death and life combined in thee.

From the first moment, when we find
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires-like demons shrin'd
Unholily in that fair form,-

Till when, by touch of heav'n set free,
Thou cams't with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY,)

And cov'ring in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years.
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master-Him
Whose bitter death-cup from above

Had yet this cordial round the brim.
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last.
Till, O blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that face Divine,

When risen from the dead first shone;
That thou might't see how, like a cloud,
Had passed away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever giv'n,
Ev'n under God's own kindly hand,
Of what repentance wins from heaven.

LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

Moore wrote the "Loves of the Angels" in a cottage near Paris, where he resided from 1819 to 1822. This lengthened absence from England was caused by difficulties of a pecuniary nature, arising from the misconduct of the person who acted as Moore's deputy at Bermuda. This deputy embezzled the produce of the cargoes of some American ships, and fled, leaving his principal liable for £6,000. An admiralty attachment issued against Moore, and to avoid imprisonment he went to France. After considerable negotiation, an arrange

ment was made, and the demand was compromised for a thousand guineas, of which the delinquent's friends paid £300, and Moore the remaining £750. The poet was offered pecuniary aid by several parties during his difficulties, but he firmly declined these proffered acts of kindness.

Moore sat down to produce some work, the sale of which might satisfy the demand against him. This passage in Moore's life resembles Sir Walter Scott's noble effort to pay an enormous amount of debt by the produce of intellectual toil. Moore, however, was not destined to undergo so herculean a task as that which eventually "overthrew the mighty mind" of the "Author of Waverley."

Rambling in the beautiful park of St. Cloud, with his note-book and pencils, he passed the day (he says) "forming verses to run smooth and moulding sentences into shape," and in the evening joined the social circle, taking his part in some musical entertainment. Washington Irving was a visitor with Moore for some time at this period, and showed him some passages of Bracebridge Hall, which work was then about to appear.

Moore commenced the life of Sheridan in his retreat near Paris, but finding that his task was impeded by absence from those from whom he could glean many interesting particulars respecting the private life of that extraordinary man, he postponed the work till he could with safety reside in London.

He next turned his thoughts to an Egyptian tale, and wrote several letters in verse. He threw this work aside as he could not get on to his satisfaction, but in after years he completed the idea

G

in the beautiful tale of the Epicurean, which is only prose in not being written in lines, for it is most exquisite poetry. The letters he laid aside have since appeared, under the title of "Alciphron." Moore wrote the Eighth Number of the Irish Melodies at this time, and several of his songs of various nations. At length he hit upon the idea of turning into verse a prose story he had written many years before, and working rapidly he soon produced his "Loves of the Angels," founded on an idea which Byron was at the same time embodying in his "Heaven and Earth." Moore wrote his "Fables of the Holy Alliance" at the same period, of which we shall speak when we come to notice his satirical and humorous poems.

In 1822 Moore returned to England, having literally worked himself out of debt, for although he consented to receive the loan of £750 pressed upon him by a particular friend, he would not take it until he had earned the means of almost immediate repayment. He gave the lender an order on the house of Longman, and the result showed that he had not been too sanguine, for in a few months the "Loves of the Angels" produced £1,000 to the author, and the "Fables" £500. Moore states that about this time, there was placed at his disposal a sum of £300 by a kind friend. He does not mention the name, but it would appear from the context to be Lord John Russell, and the sum to be the proceeds of the first edition of the "Life of Lord William Russell."

The poem of the "Loves of the Angels" is founded on the Rabbinical fiction, that some