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 of a poet, and by no means
loftily to be praised or admired even when regarded as the outer
investiture of a nobler poetic something within. But let desert of every
kind have its place, and welcome. In the cosmical diapason and august