The Irish republic. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1867-18??, 1867-05-25
Review.
MooRE's IRISH MELODIES. 4

ished In ten monthly parts, superDly lllustraCed
and will be sold at the very reasonable rate OF 81
each part
1t would seem almost superfuous at this day to
speak of Tom Moore, the poet of many circles (he
must have been a Fenian) and the idol Of all" as
his contemporaries justly called him.
Many of our countrymen condemn him for hay
ing spent his life among the oppressors of his coun-
try, and for his servity to titled nobility. Hewa
born in gloomy days, and, during his long and mer-
ry life, like humming- bird flying from flower to
flower of the English garden, slipping the sweet
ness from their fragrant lips, there scarcely
hope for Irish Nationality but one, and that seemed
closed when the head of his schoolmate, Emmett,
was held aloft by the hand of the executioner as
the head of a traitor. How man, nursed in the
school that produced Emmett, Russell and others of
their temperament could bury their memories and
his country's wrongs, and, wreathing himself in
flowers, become the troubadour to the Lady Fan
ny's and Lady Mary's of English drawing-rooms,
singing of his country, no doubt, and making them
weep at the song of the captive while the "noble
ords' of the noble ladies we're red with the blood
of his butchered country is inexplicable, and comes
between Tom Moore and the heart of Ireland, like
the ghosts of the dead.
That Tom Moore loved his country and wept
her woes there can be no denying; but being OF a
sunny temperament, and finding no appreciative
ears and hearts at home, he was wooed across the
English Channel, and, once drawn into the whrl of
English society," it's appreciatlve excitement became
necessity to his existence, and tossed ona sea of
delight, it was easy to forget the dragged beauty
across the channel Moore was not poet to
starve in garnet, or die in the poorhouse rather
than bend and worship at the golden shrine of the
Saxon. Chanting the praises of his "Creveen y"
to an admiring ring of Irish peasants like poor
Edward Walsh, singing IN despair, like Mangan,
"olt, with tears, have groaned to God for pity
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim
Oft sung unto Him prayerful ditty-
Oft, all lonely in this throngfnl city,
Raised my soul to Him ~
was not in Moore's line. No; when Tom Moore
wept he wept the woes of others, and, as the woes
of others are easily suffered, escrow had not worn
him to the bone'' in his youth, but he lived to
please the ladies, and charm the world with his
songs,to good old age, with glass in hand to the
end, and his motto
"Sigh, heart, but do not break;
IT'S rather sentimental signing"
To see Tom Moore in his glory, we must repair
to Lady Jerseys, to an I" evening' given in honor
of the poet The time is nine or ten o'clock, and
the guests are lords, dukes ladies, duchesses the
bon tom of English aristocracy all gathered, and
ready to do homage, at the shrine of genius.
duet is sung by two Of the young ladies, and ap-
plauded for poeness sake if nothing else, but it is
easy to see in the expectant faces, that something
is to follow, for which their souls stand on tiptoe
AsTodv Torsay leads our Bard to the piano. a thrill
of expectant delight passes over the hearts OF the
guests, something like what we experience before
the curtain, ere it rises to dazzle our visions, and
fill our souls with the beauties hidden behind It's sa
BILE folds AS he sits at the piano and throws up