No More Learning

Rome was founded for grandeur, and her laws had an ad-
mirable tendency to bestow it; for which reason, in all the
variations of her government, whether monarchy, aristocracy, or
popular, she constantly engaged in enterprises which required
conduct to accomplish them, and always succeeded.
The expe-
rience of a day did not furnish her with more wisdom than all
other nations, but she obtained it by a long succession of events.
She sustained a small, a moderate, and an immense fortune with
the same superiority, derived true welfare from the whole train
of her prosperities, and refined every instance of calamity into
beneficial instructions.
She lost her liberty because she completed her work too
soon.


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10268
MONTESQUIEU
USBEK AT PARIS, TO IBBEN AT SMYRNA
From the Persian Letters >
HE Women of Persia are finer than those of France, but those
THE of this country are prettier. It is difficult not to love the
first, and not to be pleased with the latter; the one are
more delicate and modest, and the others more gay and airy.
What in Persia renders the blood so pure is the regular life the
women observe: they neither game nor sit up late, they drink no
wine, and do not expose themselves to the open air. It must be
allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than for
pleasure: it is a dull, uniform kind of life, where everything
turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave,
and their pastimes solemn, and they seldom taste them but as so
many tokens of authority and dependence. The men themselves
in Persia are not so gay as the French; there is not that free-
dom of mind, and that appearance of content, which I meet with
here in persons of all estates and ranks. It is still worse in
Turkey, where there are families in which, from father to son,
not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the
monarchy. The gravity of the Asiatics arises from the little
conversation there is among them, who never see each other
but when obliged by ceremony. Friendship, that sweet engage-
ment of the heart, which constitutes here the pleasure of life,
is there almost unknown. They retire within their own house,
where they constantly find the same company; insomuch that
each family may be considered as living in an island detached
from all others. Discoursing one time on this subject with a
person of this country, he said to me: —
"That which gives me most offense among all your customs is
the necessity you are under of living with slaves, whose minds and
inclinations always savor of the meanness of their condition. Those
sentiments of virtue which you have in you from nature are enfee-
bled and destroyed by these base wretches who surround you from
your infancy. For, in short, divest yourself of prejudice, and what
can you expect from an education received from such a wretch,
who places his whole merit in being a jailer to the wives of another
man, and takes a pride in the vilest employment in society? who is
despicable for that very fidelity which is his only virtue, to which
he is prompted by envy, jealousy, and despair; who, inflamed with a


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MONTESQUIEU
10269
desire of revenging himself on both sexes, of which he is an outcast,
submits to the tyranny of the stronger sex provided he may distress
the weaker; a wretch who, deriving from his imperfection, ugliness,
and deformity, the whole lustre of his condition, is valued only
because he is unworthy to be so; who, in short, riveted forever to
the gate where he is placed, and harder than the hinges and bolts
which secure it, boasts of having spent a life of fifty years in so
ignoble a station, where, commissioned by his master's jealousy, he
exercises all his cruelties. "
RICA AT PARIS, TO IBBEN AT SMYRNA
From the Persian Letters >
WH
HETHER it is better to deprive women of their liberty or to
permit it them, is a great question among men: it ap-
pears to me that there are good reasons for and against
this practice. If the Europeans urge that there is a want of
generosity in rendering those persons miserable whom we love,
our Asiatics answer that it is meanness in men to renounce the
empire which nature has given them over women. If they are
told that a great number of women, shut up, are troublesome,
they reply that ten women in subjection are less troublesome
than one who is refractory.
Another question among the learned is, whether the law of
nature subjects the women to the men. No, said a gallant phi-
losopher to me the other day, nature never dictated such a law.
The empire we have over them is real tyranny, which they
only suffer us to assume because they have more good-nature
than we, and in consequence more humanity and reason. These
advantages, which ought to have given them the superiority had
we acted reasonably, have made them lose it because we have
not the same advantages.
But if it is true that the power we
have over women is only tyrannical, it is no less so that they
have over us a natural empire-that of beauty-which nothing
can resist. Our power extends not to all countries; but that of
beauty is universal. Wherefore then do we hear of this privilege?
Is it because we are the strongest? But this is really injustice.
We employ every kind of means to reduce their spirits. Their
abilities would be equal with ours, if their education was the
same. Let us examine them in those talents which education has


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10270
MONTESQUIEU
not enfeebled, and we shall see if ours are as great. It must be
acknowledged, though it is contrary to our custom, that among
the most polite people the women have always had the authority
over their husbands; it was established among the Egyptians in
honor of Isis, and among the Babylonians in honor of Semiramis.
It is said of the Romans that they commanded all nations, but
obeyed their wives. I say nothing of the Sauromates, who were
in perfect slavery to the sex: they were too barbarous to be
brought for an example. Thou seest, my dear Ibben, that I have
contracted the fashion of this country, where they are fond of
defending extraordinary opinions, and reducing everything to a
paradox. The prophet has determined the question, and settled
the rights of each sex: the women, says he, must honor their
husbands, and the men their wives; but the husbands are allowed
one degree of honor more.


## p. 10270 (#87) ###########################################



## p. 10270 (#88) ###########################################


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## p. 10270 (#89) ###########################################

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## p. 10271 (#91) ###########################################

10271
THOMAS MOORE
(1779-1852)
BY THOMAS WALSH
LTHOUGH of late years, through the gradual change of taste,
the importance of Thomas Moore to the critical reader has
grown to be more that of a personality than that of a poet,
yet, in large and steady demand at the libraries, his works outrank
those of Byron, Scott, and all other popular poets.
Whether this be a tribute to his sentimentality or his music, there
can be no doubt that Moore, who came of the people,— his father a
small grocer and liquor-dealer of Dublin,-understood their feelings
better than he is generally supposed to have done; and while he
was singing to the languishing ladies of London, never forgot the
less fashionable though no less sentimental audience beyond.
For it is by his songs that his name has made its place in the
poet's corner of the heart: not by his elaborated pictures of an Orient
that he never beheld; his loves of angelic (and too earthly) spirits;
nor his high-flown and modish 'Evenings in Greece. ' Fate has its
ironies, and this is one of them: Tom Moore, the darling of English
aristocracy, the wit of fashionable Bohemia, lives for us principally
as the pretty Irish lad from Dublin; his boyish fad of Anacreon and
Thomas Little forgotten, and only the songs that came from his
heart remembered.
Born in a humble though decent quarter of Dublin, on the 28th of
May, 1779, he inherited that love of country which is so characteris-
tic of his race. Ireland has cause indeed to be grateful to Moore. It
is true that his tastes and his friendships were placed far from her
unfortunate shores. But in those days she offered no future to a lit-
erary man; and it required more than ordinary courage to espouse
her cause when even sympathy with her was considered treasonable
to England. Among his English friends, who thought Ireland synony-
mous with barbarity and ignorance, he moved about amiably patri-
otic, striking down the barriers of intolerance with the shafts of his
conciliating wit. Sunday after Sunday, though his controversial works
in favor of Catholicism would fill many volumes, he was to be found
in an Anglican chapel.
While Moore never deserted or neglected his humble parents, of
whom he was justifiably proud, nor forgot his early friends and


## p. 10272 (#92) ###########################################

10272
THOMAS MOORE
helpers, yet as he rose in life, his diaries contain few names but those
of the great. With his gifts of social wit and gayety he was more
courted than courting, however; and in this light should be received
the saying that "Tommy dearly loved a lord. " Few men ever sur-
passed him in that art of brilliant conversation that contributed so
largely to his successful career. He is the past-master in that art
among the moderns; and Golzan, when he asserted that the footmen
in the old French salons were more distinguished in their conversa-
tion than the great writers since their day, should have excepted the
Irish poet.
While not a great linguist, he was certainly endowed with the gift
of tongues; so that when he left the University in Dublin in 1799,
with his classical studies completed, he was proficient in both French
and Italian. His name was now entered at the Middle Temple, Lon-
don. His youth, he was only twenty,- his humble parents and
meagre fortunes, had not prevented him from gaining some foothold
in Dublin society. For besides his personal gifts, he was already
known as a poet, from some published effusions; and it was whis-
pered that the pretty youth who had dabbled in the plot that sent
his college-mate, Robert Emmet, to the gallows, had under his arm the
manuscript of the 'Odes of Anacreon,' which, to the unsophisticated
aristocrats of Dublin, must have given the young bard an air of fas-
cinating worldliness.
His first business in London was to obtain a patron; and we
soon hear of him as supping, through Lord Moira's influence, with the
Prince Regent, at the table of Mrs. Fitzherbert. A subscription for
the publication of the 'Odes,' headed by the name of his Royal
Highness, soon enabled Moore to produce his dainty translations of
the Teian bard, with all the conventional foot-notes and pretty pieces
of learning that the time so much admired; with every nymph and
cup-bearer pictured in corkscrew curls and voluminous draperies. It
is an epitome of the spirit of its time,-this little volume,—so bland
in its pretensions to learning, at the same time so fashionable and so
seemingly erudite. Quotations in Greek, Latin, French, and Italian
meet the eye on almost every page; and pretty conceits from outside
sources, that can be brought by any straining of means into some con-
nection with the main work, are scattered with a lavish hand.
w
The success of this volume was so great that we hear no more of
Moore in the Middle Temple. In the years of prosperity and gayety
that followed,-years of bewildering successes for so young a man,-
a laureateship is offered and declined. The great men of the day
stood anxious to be of use to the youth whom fashion had taken by
the hand; and, again through the influence of Lord Moira, Moore was
made Registrar of the Admiralty Court of Bermuda. But the island
-


## p. 10273 (#93) ###########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10273
of "the still-vext Bermoothes" was not to the taste of the gay little
dancer in the sun; and tarrying there only long enough to appoint
a deputy, he proceeded on the American tour that resulted in his
'Epistles, Odes, and Other Poems. ' In America Moore naturally found
little to admire. He was shocked at "the rude familiarity of the
lower orders"; and on his arrival in Washington, took sides with the
British minister and his wife in that historic quarrel with the Presi-
dent on the subject of social precedence, that mystified the magnates
of the republican court.
He shared, indeed, the national aptitude for quarreling; on one
occasion challenging Jeffrey to a duel, because of a critique in the
Edinburgh, a duel which the police interrupted at the crucial moment,
and which resulted in the lifelong friendship of the combatants. It
happened, however, that when the pistols were seized, one of them
was discovered to be without a bullet; whereupon Byron in his 'Eng-
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers' so ridiculed the affair that Moore
challenged him in turn. Friends however interfered, and a friendship
was founded between the combatants that has for its memorial the
'Life and Journals of Lord Byron' by Thomas Moore.
In 1811 the poet married Miss Bessie Dyke, an Irish actress of
some note, whose beauty had gained her from the fastidious Rogers
the names of "Madonna della Sedia" and "Psyche. " She had all the
womanly qualities of self-control, patience, and economy, that were
needed by the wife of the spoiled little bard, who gave her until his
death all the devotion of a lover.
His life after his marriage was to be one series of social and liter-
ary triumphs, shadowed only by the money difficulties by which his
own carelessness and his Bermudan deputy's dishonesty threatened at
one time to overwhelm him. He paid his debts, however, by means
of the success of his satires, the generous terms of the Longmans in
ordering 'Lalla Rookh,' and the pension of £300 given him by the
government through the grace of Lord John Russell, who was one
day to be his biographer. Fond as he was of dancing and dining,
however, he was both industrious and persevering at his work-bench,
where he turned out not less than thirty volumes, among the best
known of which are -The Odes of Anacreon,' The Fudge Family
in Paris, Epistles, Odes, and Other Poems,' 'The Two-penny Post
Bag,' 'Lalla Rookh,' 'Rhymes on the Road,' 'The Epicurean, a Prose
Story,' 'The Loves of the Angels,' 'The Life of Sheridan,' 'The Life
of Lord Byron,' and 'The Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald. '
During his sojourns in France, while his friends compromised the
Bermudan suits, Continental society united to do him honor. Royalty
listened to his charming drolleries, and languished over the songs
which he sang and accompanied on the piano with an elegance that
XVIII-643


## p. 10274 (#94) ###########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10274
great musicians envied for its effect. 'Lalla Rookh' was presented
by the Imperial personages on the court stage of St. Petersburg.
The Duchess of Kent and the little Princess Victoria sang his own
songs to him.
For Moore," says Lady Morgan, a very capable
judge,-"now belongs to gilded saloons and grand pianofortes. "
When he goes to Ireland, he must kiss every woman on board the
Dublin packet; and the galleries of the theatres ring with "Come,
show your Irish face, Tom! " That he had the tastes of a dandy,
we learn from a letter of the time describing his "smart white hat,
kid gloves, brown frock coat, yellow cassimere waistcoat, gray duck
trousers, and blue silk handkerchief carelessly secured in front by a
silver pin. " At another time he orders a coat of "blue with yellow
buttons"; but meanwhile he complains that he has been obliged to
wear his white hat in the winter rains for want of a better. In spite
of his toilets, however, the good-natured crowd that followed the
"Great Poet" in his Irish wanderings were so disappointed that there
were frequent outcries of "Well, 'tis a darling little pet, at any rate;"
"Be dad, isn't he a dawny creature, and doesn't he just look like one
of the good people! " (fairies). But there was never any lack of
enthusiasm and cheering.
-
At length the shadows began to darken on the spirit of Moore,
as one by one his five children died, and he was left at last alone
with his devoted Bessy. His wit and brilliancy began to fade; and
though, as Willis relates, he continued to stumble in his short-sighted
way into the salons of the great houses where he was worshiped, and
though he still sat among the wits and peers at table,—the light
fancy, the store of anecdote and droll allusion, diminished until all that
made his greatness became mere tradition. It was too late to hope
that he would change his life,-retire to the privacy of his home,
hiding the eclipse of mind that has so often darkened the last years
of men of genius. It was in the midst of the gay and worldly throng
in which he had passed his golden days that he lapsed into silence,
and became the spectre of the feasts to which, above all, he was once
welcome.
The end came in February 1852, when he had reached his seventy-
third year.
Of all his family, he was survived only by the noble
woman who saw him laid beside their five children in the church-
yard of Bromham in Wiltshire.
James tralah.
هم


## p. 10275 (#95) ###########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10275
Ο
PARADISE AND THE PERI
From Lalla Rookh
NE morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate;
And as she listened to the springs
Of life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings
Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place!
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
"Are the holy spirits who wander there
'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall:
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea,
And the stars themselves have flowers for me,
One blossom of heaven outblooms them all!
"Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere,
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,
And sweetly the founts of that valley fall;
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,
Yet-oh, 'tis only the blest can say
How the waters of heaven outshine them all!
"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall;
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years-
One minute of heaven is worth them all! »
The glorious angel who was keeping
The gates of light beheld her weeping;
And as he nearer drew, and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain when it lies
On the blue flower which - Bramins say -
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
"Nymph of a fair but erring line! "
Gently he said "one hope is thine.
―――


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10276
THOMAS MOORE
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this eternal gate
The gift that is most dear to heaven!
Go seek it, and redeem thy sin,-
'Tis sweet to let the pardoned in. ”
Rapidly as comets run
To the embraces of the sun;
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb the empyreal heights,-
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance.
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.
But whither shall the spirit go
To find this gift for heaven? "I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;
I know where the Isles of Perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby;
I know too where the Genii hid
The jeweled cup of their King Jamshid,
With life's elixir sparkling high,-
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne?
And the drops of life-oh! what would they be
In the boundless deep of eternity? "
While thus she mused, her pinions fanned
The air of that sweet Indian land
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!


## p. 10277 (#97) ###########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10277
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood; the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man the sacrifice of man
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the sun! what foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades,
Thy cavern shrines and idol stones,
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones?
'Tis he of Gazna: fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved sultana;
Maidens within their pure zenana,
Priests in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And through the war-field's bloody haze
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone beside his native river,
The red blade broken in his hand
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqueror, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear! "
Silent that youthful warrior stood;
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood:
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The tyrant lived, the hero fell! .
Yet marked the Peri where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last,
Last glorious drop his heart had shed
Before its free-born spirit fled!


## p. 10278 (#98) ###########################################

10278
THOMAS MOORE
"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the gates of light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distill
On the field of warfare, blood like this
For liberty shed so holy is,
It would not stain the purest rill
That sparkles among the bowers of bliss!
Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause! "
"Sweet," said the angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who die thus for their native land;
But see-alas! - the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not: holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be
That opes the gates of heaven for thee! »
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,
Now among Afric's lunar mountains
Far to the south the Peri lighted,
And sleeked her plumage at the fountains
Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth.
Is hidden from the sons of earth,
Deep in those solitary woods
Where oft the Genii of the floods
Dance round the cradle of their Nile
And hail the new-born giant's smile.
Thence over Egypt's palmy groves,
Her grots, and sepulchres of kings,
The exiled spirit sighing roves,
And now hangs listening to the doves
In warm Rosetta's vale; now loves
To watch the moonlight on the wings
Of the white pelicans that break
The azure calm of Moris's lake.
'Twas a fair scene: a land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!
Who could have thought, that saw this night、
Those valleys and their fruits of gold


## p. 10279 (#99) ###########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10279
Basking in heaven's serenest light;
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending
Warns them to their silken beds;
Those virgin lilies all the night
Bathing their beauties in the lake,
That they may rise more fresh and bright
When their beloved sun's awake;
Those ruined shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream,
Amid whose fairy loneliness
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting
Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-winged sultana sitting
Upon a column motionless,
And glittering like an idol bird! -
Who could have thought that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
-
The demon of the plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick that every living thing
Of human shape touched by his wing,
Like plants where the simoom hath past,
At once falls black and withering!
The sun went down on many a brow
Which, full of bloom and freshness then,
Is rankling in the pest-house now,
And ne'er will feel that sun again.
And oh! to see the unburied heaps
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps—
The very vultures turn away,
And sicken at so foul a prey!
Only the fierce hyena stalks
Throughout the city's desolate walks
At midnight, and his carnage plies;
Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets
The glaring of those large blue eyes
Amid the darkness of the streets!
"Poor race of men! " said the pitying Spirit,
"Dearly ye pay for your primal fall:


## p. 10280 (#100) ##########################################

10280
THOMAS MOORE
Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,
But the trail of the Serpent is over them all! »
She wept: the air grew pure and clear
Around her as the bright drops ran;
For there's a magic in each tear
Such kindly spirits weep for man!
Just then beneath some orange-trees,
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze
Were wantoning together, free,
Like age at play with infancy,-
Beneath that fresh and springing bower,
Close by the lake, she heard the moan
Of one who at this silent hour
Had thither stolen to die alone:
One who in life, where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved,
Dies here unseen, unwept by any!
None to watch near him; none to slake
The fire that in his bosom lies
With even a sprinkle from that lake
Which shines so cool before his eyes;
No voice well known through many a day
To speak the last, the parting word,
Which when all other sounds decay
Is still like distant music heard,-
That tender farewell on the shore
Of this rude world when all is o'er,
Which cheers the spirit ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.
Deserted youth! one thought alone
Shed joy around his soul in death:
That she whom he for years had known,
And loved, and might have called his own,
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;
Safe in her father's princely halls,
Where the cool airs from fountain falls,
Freshly perfumed by many a brand
Of the sweet wood from India's land,
Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.
―
But see
who yonder comes by stealth
This melancholy bower to seek,


## p. 10281 (#101) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10281
Like a young envoy sent by Health
With rosy gifts upon her cheek?
'Tis she: far off, through moonlight dim
He knew his own betrothed bride,—
She who would rather die with him
Than live to gain the world beside!
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to hers she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake her loosened tresses.
Ah! once, how little did he think
An hour would come when he should shrink
With horror from that dear embrace,
Those gentle arms that were to him
Holy as is the cradling-place
Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields- now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffered lips alone;
Those lips that then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unasked or without shame.
"Oh! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,
And whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There― drink my tears while yet they fall;
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And well thou knowest I'd shed it all
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face:
Am I not thine - thy own loved bride —
The one, the chosen one, whose place
In life or death is by thy side?
Think'st thou that she whose only light
In this dim world from thee hath shone,
Could bear the long, the cheerless night
That must be hers when thou art gone?
That I can live and let thee go,
Who art my life itself? No, no-
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too!
Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Before, like thee, I fade and burn;


## p. 10282 (#102) ##########################################

10282
THOMAS MOORE
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share
The last pure life that lingers there! "
She fails she sinks; as dies the lamp
In charnel airs or cavern damp,
So quickly do his baleful sighs
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes.
One struggle; and his pain is past-
Her lover is no longer living!
One kiss the maiden gives, one last
Long kiss, which she expires in giving!
--
"Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast,-
"Sleep on; in visions of odor rest;
In balmier airs than ever yet stirred
The enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death-lay
And in music and perfume dies away! "
Thus saying, from her lips she spread
Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,
That like two lovely saints they seemed,
Upon the eve of Doomsday taken
From their dim graves in odor sleeping;
While that benevolent Peri beamed
Like their good angel calmly keeping
Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.
But morn is blushing in the sky;
Again the Peri soars above,
Bearing to heaven that precious sigh
Of pure self-sacrificing love.
High throbbed her heart, with hope elate:
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright spirit at the gate
Smiled as she gave that offering in;
And she already hears the trees
Of Eden with their crystal bells
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze
That from the throne of Alla swells;
And she can see the starry bowls
That lie around that lucid lake


## p. 10283 (#103) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10283
Upon whose banks admitted souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But ah! even Peris' hopes are vain:
Again the fates forbade, again
The immortal barrier closed. "Not yet,"
The angel said, as with regret
He shut from her that glimpse of glory:
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er Alla's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, Peri, see the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not: holier far
-
Than even this sigh the boon must be
That opes the gates of heaven for thee. »
Now upon Syria's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And like a glory the broad sun
Hangs over sainted Lebanon,
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer in a vale of flowers
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.
To one who looked from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks.
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls.
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam
Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows such as span
The unclouded skies of Peristan.
-
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum


## p. 10284 (#104) ##########################################

10284
THOMAS MOORE
Of the wild bees of Palestine,
Banqueting through the flowery vales;
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods so full of nightingales.
But naught can charm the luckless Peri:
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary;
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple once his own,
Whose lonely columns stand sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high
Like dials which the wizard Time
Had raised to count his ages by!
Yet haply there may lie concealed
Beneath those chambers of the sun
Some amulet of gems, annealed
In upper fires, some tablet sealed
With the great name of Solomon,
Which, spelled by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean, lies the boon,
The charm, that can restore so soon
An erring spirit to the skies.
Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of even
In the rich west begun to wither;-
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging,
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing with eager hands and eyes
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
-
That fluttered round the jasmine stems
Like wingèd flowers or flying gems:
And near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount,
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
To the fair child, who fearless sat,


## p. 10285 (#105) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10285
Though never yet hath day-beam burned
Upon a brow more fierce than that:
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire;
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed,-
The ruined maid, the shrine profaned,
Oaths broken, and the threshold stained
With blood of guests! -there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again.
-
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening-time
Softened his spirit) looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play;
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze
As torches that have burnt all night,
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air
From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth;
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again.
Oh! 'twas a sight,- that heaven, that child,-
A scene, which might have well beguiled
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there, while memory ran


## p. 10286 (#106) ##########################################

10286
THOMAS MOORE
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,-
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace.
"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child!
When, young and haply pure as thou,
I looked and prayed like thee; but now-— »
He hung his head; each nobler aim
And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept - he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence;
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.
"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon
Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies
And health reanimates earth and skies!
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,
The precious tears of repentance fall?
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,
One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all! "
And now-behold him kneeling there
By the child's side, in humble prayer,
While the same sunbeam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven
The triumph of a soul forgiven!
'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they lingered yet,
There fell a light more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek.
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam;
But well the enraptured Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the angel threw


## p. 10287 (#107) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10287
Ο
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!
"Joy, joy forever! my task is done-
The gates are passed, and heaven is won!
Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am
To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,
And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!
-
"Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die
Passing away like a lover's sigh:
My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!
"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone
In my fairy wreath so bright and brief:
Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown
To the lote-tree springing by Alla's throne,
Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf.
Joy, joy forever! my task is done —
The gates are passed, and heaven is won! "
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM
H! THE days are gone, when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frowned before,
To smile at last:
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,


## p. 10288 (#108) ##########################################

10288
THOMAS MOORE
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And at every close she blushed to hear
The one loved name.
No, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odor fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream:
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream;
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING
HE time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing.
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
THE
Has been my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorned the lore she brought me:
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the sprite
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turned away,
Oh! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?


## p. 10289 (#109) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10289
No-vain, alas! the endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever:
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS
B
ELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away:
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will;
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear:
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.
COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM
Co
OME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer:
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still
here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,—
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy angel I'll be through the horrors of this:
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!
XVIII-644


## p. 10290 (#110) ##########################################

10290
THOMAS MOORE
NORA CREINA
ESBIA hath a beaming eye,
L$
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one
Like unexpected light surprises!
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty's mold
Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
Oh! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress
Is loveliness-
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.
Lesbia hath a wit refined,
But when its points are gleaming round us,
Who can tell if they're designed
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillowed on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes
-
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,
Hath no such light
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.


## p. 10291 (#111) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10291
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT
FT, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
OFT
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but him departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME
OH
H! BREATHE not his name,-let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.


## p. 10292 (#112) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10292
'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
Is the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
'T's
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS
THE
HE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er;
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.


## p. 10293 (#113) ##########################################

THOMAS MOORE
10293
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL
MIRIAM'S SONG
«And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her
hand;
and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. »
- EXOD. xv. 20.
-
OUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea:
Jehovah has triumphed his people are free!
Sing - for the pride of the tyrant is broken:
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave-
How vain was their boast; for the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea:
Jehovah has triumphed—his people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea:
Jehovah has triumphed-his people are free!
―
"THOU ART, O GOD»
«The day is thine, the night is also thine; thou hast prepared the light and
the sun.
"Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and
winter. "- PSALM 1xxiv. 16, 17.
THOU
HOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we, see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee;
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine!


## p. 10294 (#114) ##########################################

10294
THOMAS MOORE
!
When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
THE BIRD LET LOOSE
THE
HE bird let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadows dim her way.
So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs:
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!


## p. 10294 (#115) ##########################################



## p. 10294 (#116) ##########################################


SIR THOMAS MORE,


## p. 10294 (#117) ##########################################

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## p. 10294 (#118) ##########################################



## p. 10295 (#119) ##########################################

10295
SIR THOMAS MORE
(1478-1535)
BY ANNA MCCLURE SHOLL
IR THOMAS MORE is conspicuous among English men of letters,
not solely because of the quality of his English and Latin
prose; but in the main for the humanistic spirit of his cult-
ure. In an age when his nation was not distinguished for liberality
of thought nor for breadth of human view, Thomas More linked to
his mediæval devoutness a passion for intellectual freedom which
places him in the first rank of modern thinkers. He obtains perhaps
broader recognition, as one whose public and private life was of such
exalted purity and high-minded fidelity to a fixed ideal, that later
generations have found in his character the essential elements of
sainthood.
He was born in 1478, in the morning twilight of the Renaissance.
The strong new life of Italy, awakening to the beauty and won-
der of the world and of man, under the inspiration of the Hellenic
spirit, had not yet communicated its full warmth and vigor to the
nations of the north. England was still mediæval and scholastic when
Thomas More was a page in the household of Cardinal Morton. Even
the great universities were under the domination of the schoolmen.
Greek was neglected for the dusty Latin of scholasticism. The highly
susceptible nature of Thomas More felt nevertheless the influence of
the classical revival, with its accompanying revival of humanitarian
sympathies. Humane in temperament, of a sweet and reasonable
mind, he was drawn naturally to the study of the Greek classics. At
the same time his inheritance of the simple Christian piety of an
earlier day inclined him to asceticism. His soul was mediæval; his
mind was modern. Self-repression and self-expansion struggled within
him for the mastery. The hair shirt and the wooden pillow were
placed over against the delights of the new learning. The career of
Thomas More was determined by his father, a lawyer of distinction,
who wished his son to be a devotee neither of religion nor of lit-
erature. In 1494, after a two-years' residence at Oxford, More was
entered at New Inn to begin the study of law. From thenceforth his
career was to be more and more involved with the troubled politics
of England in the reigns of Henry VII. and Henry VIII. For a time,


## p. 10296 (#120) ##########################################

10296
SIR THOMAS MORE
however, he was to advance quietly in his chosen profession, matur-
ing under the influences of life in the world, and under the enriching
forces of his friendship with Erasmus. In Erasmus, the cultured and
philosophical representative of the new era, More found satisfaction
for needs of his own nature which neither the study of law nor the
exercises of devotion could wholly meet. The author of the Uto-
pia' would follow the leadership of love into many paths which
might otherwise have offered no thoroughfare. It is in the 'Utopia'
that the friend of Erasmus, the lover of Greek humanism, the mod-
ern thinker, escapes from the trammels of his age and environment,
and gives expression to the best that is within him.
As far as was possible More sought to give a practical outlet to
his high and prophetic ideals. In doing so he ran contrary to the
tendency of his time, and paid the last penalty of such a course -
martyrdom. From the accession of Henry VIII. in 1509, to 1532, the
year in which More resigned the Great Seal, his career indicated not
only his moral and intellectual greatness, but the pressure of his
individuality against the trammels of an age too strait for it. The
justice and mercy of Sir Thomas More belong rather to the nineteenth
century than to the sixteenth, despite their setting in the religious
thought and feeling of the Middle Age.
The landmarks of his life, his appointment as under-sheriff of
London in 1510, his embassy to Flanders in 1514 and to Calais in
1517, his admission to the Privy Council in 1518, his promotion to the
Under-Treasurership in 1521 and his knighting in the same year, his
election as Speaker of the House of Commons in 1523, his advance-
ment to the Lord Chancellorship in 1529-these events were steps
in an uncongenial progress towards an undesired goal. Between the
author of the 'Utopia' and Henry VIII. there was a great gulf fixed.
The monarch might walk and talk familiarly with his Lord Chan-
cellor in the pleasant gardens of More's home at Chelsea, but this
friendship of royal imposition was the artificial linking of a modern
man with a feudal tyrant. The conflict of Sir Thomas More with
Henry VIII. over the divorce of Katherine of Aragon was less one
of religion than of the old order with the new. The execution of
More in 1535, for refusing to accept the Act of Supremacy, was but
the natural outcome of this conflict.
――
In the Utopia' More embodied his ideals of society and govern-
ment, for which he had found so few mediums of expression in the
actual order about him. A critic in the Quarterly Review justly says
of the book that "it is an indictment of the state of society in which
More found himself, and an aspiration after a fairer and juster order-
ing of the commonwealth. We can trace in it something vaticinatory;
some forecast of the prophetic soul of the great world dreaming on


## p. 10297 (#121) ##########################################

SIR THOMAS MORE
10297
things to come. " Another critic, Rudbart, finds it underlain with
three great truths: that toleration should prevail in matters of reli-
gious belief; that all political power should not be vested in a single
hand; that the well-being of the body politic depends upon the ethi-
cal and religious fitness of its members.
'Utopia,' the island of Nowhere, where labor is recreation, where
want is not, where men are brothers, remains still an ideal to modern
minds of a certain type. The charm of the book itself lies partly in
its attractive subject-a golden age is always of interest partly
in its quaint and fragrant style.
In the annals of English literature, Sir Thomas More the Lord
Chancellor is less remembered than Sir Thomas More the friend
of Erasmus and of Holbein, the head of the patriarchal household at
Chelsea, the father of Margaret Roper. As one of the first-born of
an age whose hospitality he was not destined to enjoy, he possesses
a strong claim upon the interest and sympathy of modern genera-
tions.
Alena Mazure Sholl
-
A LETTER TO LADY MORE
[Returning from the negotiations at Cambray, Sir Thomas More heard
that his barns and some of those of his neighbors had been burned down; he
consequently wrote the following letter to his wife. Its gentleness to a sour-
tempered woman, and the benevolent feelings expressed about the property of
his neighbors, have been much admired. The spelling is modernized. ]
Μ'
ISTRESS ALICE, in my most heartywise I recommend me to
you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of
the loss of our barns and our neighbors' also, with all the
corn that was therein; albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is great
pity of so much good corn lost, yet sith it hath liked him to
send us such a chance, we must and are bounden, not only to
be content, but also to be glad of this visitation. He sent us
all that we have lost; and sith he hath by such a chance taken
it away again, his pleasure be fulfilled! Let us never grudge
thereat, but take it in good worth, and heartily thank him, as
well for adversity as for prosperity. And peradventure we have
more cause to thank him for our loss than for our winning,


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