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Moore’s name is a history in itself. Is there a single reader of poetry, to whom "Lalla Rookh" and the "Irish Melodies" are not familiar as household words?

Titania, just wakened from dreams which the rose, Flung, coloured and fragrant, around her repose, Yet, haunted by fancies, should ask for a song, To bear the soft hours of the noontide along—

'Tis thy lute that should keep the bright fairy from sleeping, The sea-shell had never such tones in its keeping; Though in its pale chamber of pearl was the birth Of the earliest music that breathed over earth.

The falling of fountains—the slight summer rain— The voice of the dove, were less sweet than thy strain; Till stirred with delight, would her exquisite wings Beat time on the west wind, to echo thy strings.

But yet to the ear of the fairy, unknown Were half the deep music that dwells in thy tone: The patriot’s hope, and the minstrel’s despair, To the human heart vibrate—their dwelling is there.

Thy song has its sunshine—perhaps to that sun It owes half the loveliest wreaths it has won. It still lofty hopes and sad thoughts has betrayed— Where on earth is the sunshine that flingeth no shade?

Thou wert not "the wild wind"* that waked for a while The music and murmur of "Erin's green isle;" Ah! no: to thy country thy numbers first brought The burst of strong feeling—the purpose and thought.

From Memnon's dark statue ’twas morning’s glad light That wakened the melody sleeping through night; So the soul of thine island arose at thy line, And to wish for her welfare is wishing for thine.


 * "Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee,