From “Reliques of Father Prout.”

THE BLARNEY stone in my neighborhood has attracted hither many an illustrious visitor; but none has been so assiduous a pilgrim in my time as Tom Moore. While he was engaged in his best and most unexceptionable work on the melodious ballads of his country, he came regularly every summer, and did me the honor to share my humble roof repeatedly. He knows well how often he plagued me to supply him with original songs which I had picked up in France among the merry troubadours and carol-loving inhabitants of that once happy land, and to what extent he has transferred these foreign inventions into the “Irish Melodies.” Like the robber Cacus, he generally dragged the plundered cattle by the tail, so as that, moving backwards in his cavern of stolen goods, the foot tracks might not lead to detection. Some songs he would turn upside down, by a figure in rhetoric called ὑστερον προτερον; others he would disguise in various shapes; but he would still worry me to supply him with the productions of the Gallic muse; “for, d’ye see, old Prout,” the rogue would say,

	“The best of all ways
	To lengthen our lays,
	Is to steal a few thoughts from the French, ‘my dear.’”

  Now I would have let him enjoy unmolested the renown which these “Melodies” have obtained for him, but his last treachery to my round-tower friend [O’Brien] has raised my bile, and I shall give evidence of the unsuspected robberies.

	“Abstractæque boves abjuratæque rapinæ
	Cœlo ostendentur.”

  It would be easy to point out detached fragments and stray metaphors which he has scattered here and there in such gay confusion that every page has within its limits a mass of felony and plagiarism sufficient to hang him. For instance, I need only advert to his “Bard’s Legacy.” Even on his dying bed this “dying bard” cannot help indulging his evil pranks; for, in bequeathing his “heart” to his “mistress dear,” and recommending her to “borrow” balmy drops of port wine to bathe the relic, he is all the while robbing old Clement Marot, who thus disposes of his remains:—

	“Quand je suis mort, je veux qu’on m’entère
	Dans la cave où est le vin;
	Le corps sous un tonneau de Madére,
	Et la bouche sous le robin.”

But I won’t strain at a gnat when I can capture a camel—a huge dromedary laden with pilfered soil; for would you believe it if you had never learned it from Prout, the very opening and foremost song of the collection,

“Go where glory waits thee,”

is but a literal and servile translation of an old French ditty, which is among my papers, and which I believe to have been composed by that beautiful and interesting “ladye,” Françoise de Foix, Comtesse de Châteaubriand, born in 1491, and the favorite of Francis I., who soon abandoned her; indeed, the lines appear to anticipate his infidelity. They were written before the battle of Pavia.

	CHANSON	TOM MOORE
	De la Comtesse de Châteaubriand a François I.	Translation of this song in the “Irish Melodies.”
	VA óu la gloire t’invite;	GO where glory waits thee;
	Et quand d’orgueil palpite	But while fame elates thee,
	Ce Cœur, qu’il pense à moi!	Oh, still remember me!
	Quand l’éloge enflamme	When the praise thou meetest
	Toute l’ardeur de ton âme,	To thine ear is sweetest,
	Pense encore à moi!	Oh, then remember me!
	Autres charmes peut-être	Other arms may press thee,
	Tu voudras connaître,	Dearer friends caress thee—
	Autre amour en maître	All the joys that bless thee
	Regnera sur toi;	Dearer far may be;
	Mais quand ta lèvre presse	But when friends are dearest,
	Celle qui te caresse,	And when joys are nearest,
	Méchant, pense à moi!	Oh, then remember me!
	Quand au soir tu erres	When at eve thou rovest
	Sous l’astre des bergères,	By the star thou lovest,
	Pense aux doux instans	Oh, then remember me!
	Lorsque cette étoile,	Think, when home returning,
	Qu’un beau ciel dévoile,	Bright we’ve seen it burning—
	Guida deux amans!	Oh, then remember me!
	Quand la fleur, symbole	Oft as summer closes,
	D’été qui s’envole,	When thy eye reposes
	Penche sa tête molle,	On its lingering roses,
	S’exhalant à l’air,	Once so loved by thee,
	Pense á la guirlande,	Think of her who wove them—
	De ta mie l’offrande—	Her who made thee love them
	Don qui fut si cher!	Oh, then remember me!
	Quand la feuille d’automme	When around thee, dying,
	Sous tes pas resonne,	Autumn leaves are lying,
	Pense alors à moi!	Oh, then remember me!
	Quand de la famille	And at night when gazing
	L’antique foyer brille,	On the gay hearth blazing,
	Pense encore à moi!	Oh, then remember me!
	Et si de la chanteuse	Then, should music, stealing
	La voix melodieuse	All the soul of feeling,
	Berce ton âme heureuse	To thy heart appealing,
	Et ravit tes sens,	Draw one tear from thee;
	Pense à l’air que chante	Then let memory bring thee
	Pour toi ton amante—	Strains I used to sing thee—
	Tant aimés accens!	Oh, then remember me!

    Any one who has the slightest tincture of French literature must recognize the simple and unsophisticated style of a genuine love song in the above, the language being that of the century in which Clement Marot and Maitre Adam wrote their incomparable ballads, and containing a kindly mixture of gentleness and sentimental delicacy, which no one but a “ladye” and a loving heart could infuse into the composition. Moore has not been infelicitous in rendering the charms of the wondrous original into English lines adapted to the measure and tune of the French. The air is plaintive and exquisitely beautiful; but I recommend it to be tried first on the French words, as it was sung by the charming lips of the Countess of Châteaubriand to the enraptured ear of the gallant Francis I….

  Everything was equally acceptable in the way of a song to Tommy; and provided I brought grist to his mill he did not care where the produce came from—even the wild oats and the thistles of native growth on Watergrasshill—all was good provender for his Pegasus. There was an old Latin song of my own, which I made when a boy, smitten with the charms of an Irish milkmaid, who crossed by the hedge school occasionally, and who used to distract my attention from “Corderius” and “Erasmi Colloquia.” I have often laughed at my juvenile gallantry when my eye has met the copy of verses in overhauling my papers. Tommy saw it, grasped it with avidity; and I find he has given it, word for word, in an English shape, in his “Irish Melodies.” Let the intelligent reader judge if he has done common justice to my young muse.

	IN PULCHRAM LACTIFERAM	TO A BEAUTIFUL MILKMAID
	Carmen, Auctore Prout	A Melody by Thomas Moore
	LESBIA semper hinc et inde	LESBIA hath a beaming eye,
	Oculorum tela movit;	But no one knows for whom it beameth;
	Captat omnes, sed deinde	Right and left its arrows fly,
	Quis ametur nemo novit.	But what they aim at, no one dreameth.
	Palpebrarum, Nora cara,	Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
	Lux tuarum non est foris,	My Nora’s lid, that seldom rises;
	Flamma micat ibi rara,	Few her looks, but every one
	Sed sinceri lux amoris.	Like unexpected light surprises,
	Nora Creina sit regina,	Oh, my Nora Creina dear!
	Vultu, gressu tam modesto!	My gentle, bashful Nora Creina!
	Hæc, puellas inter bellas,	Beauty lies
	Jure omnium dux esto!	In many eyes—
		But love’s in thine, my Nora Creina!
	Lesbia vestes auro graves	Lesbia wears a robe of gold;
	Fert, et gemmis, juxta normam;	But all so tight the nymph hath laced it,
	Gratiæ sed, eheu! suaves	Not a charm of beauty’s mold
	Cinctam reliquere formam.	Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
	Noræ tunicam præferres,	Oh, my Nora’s gown for me,
	Flante zephyro volantem;	That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
	Oculis et raptis erres	Leaving every beauty free
	Contemplando ambulantem!	To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
	Vesta Nora tam decora	Yes, my Nora Creina dear!
	Semper indui memento,	My simple, graceful Nora Creina!
	Semper puræ sic naturæ	Nature’s dress
	Ibis tecta vestimento.	Is loveliness—
		The dress you wear, my Nora Creina!
	Lesbia mentis præfert lumen	Lesbia hath a wit refined;
	Quod coruscat perlibenter;	But when its points are gleaming round us,
	Sed quis optet hoc acumen,	Who can tell if they’re design’d
	Quando acupuncta dentur?	To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
	Noræ sinu cum recliner,	Pillow’d on my Nora’s heart,
	Dormio luxuriose	In safer slumber Love reposes—
	Nil corrugat hoc pulvinar,	Bed of peace, whose roughest part
	Nisi crispæ ruga rosæ.	Is but the crumpling of the roses.
	Nora blanda, lux amanda,	Oh, my Nora Creina dear!
	Expers usque tenebrarum,	My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
	Tu cor mulces per tot dulces	Wit, though bright,
	Dotes, fons illecebrarum!	Hath not the light
		That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina!

    It will be seen by these specimens that Tom Moore can eke out a tolerably fair translation of any given ballad; and, indeed, to translate properly, retaining all the fire and spirit of the original, is a merit not to be sneezed at—it is the next best thing to having a genius of one’s own; for he who can execute a clever forgery, and make it pass current, is almost as well off as the capitalist who can draw a substantial check on the bank of sterling genius; so, to give the devil his due, I must acknowledge that in terseness, point, pathos, and elegance, Moore’s translations of these French and Latin trifles are very near as good as the primary compositions themselves. He has not been half so lucky in hitting off Anacreon; but he was a young man then, and a “wild fellow,” since which time it is thought that he has got to that climacteric in life to which few poets attain, viz., the years of discretion. A predatory sort of life, the career of a literary freebooter, has had great charms for him from his cradle; and I am afraid he will pursue it on to final impenitence. He seems to care little about the stern reception he will one day receive from that inflexible judge, Rhadamanthus, who will make him confess all his rogueries,—“Castigatque dolos, subigitque fateri,”—our bard being of that epicurean and careless turn of mind so strikingly expressed in these lines of “Lalla Rookh”—

	“Oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
	It is this! it is this!”

Which verses, by the by, are alone enough to convict him of downright plagiarism and robbery; for they are (as Tommy knows right well) to be seen written in large letters in the Mogul language over the audience chamber of the king of Delhi; in fact, to examine and overhaul his “Lalla Rookh” would be a most diverting task, which I may one day undertake. He will be found to have been a chartered pirate in the Persian Gulf, as he was a highwayman in Europe—“spoliis Orientis onustum.”…

  A simple hint was sometimes enough to set his Muse at work; and he not only was, to my knowledge, an adept in translating accurately, but he could also string together any number of lines in any given measure, in imitation of a song or ode which casually came in his way. This is not such arrant robbery as what I have previously stigmatized; but it is a sort of quasi-pilfering, a kind of petty larceny, not to be encouraged. There is, for instance, his “National Melody,” or jingle, called in the early edition of his poems, “Those Evening Bells, a Petersburg Air,” of which I could unfold the natural history. It is this: In one of his frequent visits to Watergrasshill, Tommy and I spent the evening in talking of our continental travels, and more particularly of Paris and its mirabilia; of which he seemed quite enamored. The view from the tower of the central church, Notre Dame, greatly struck his fancy; and I drew the conversation to the subject of the simultaneous ringing of all the bells in all the steeples of that vast metropolis on some feast day, or public rejoicing. The effect, he agreed with me, is most enchanting, and the harmony most surprising. At that time Victor Hugo had not written his glorious romance, the “Hunchback Quasimodo”; and, consequently, I could not have read his beautiful description: “In an ordinary way, the noise issuing from Paris in the daytime is the talking of the city; at night, it is the breathing of the city; in this case, it is the singing of the city. Lend your ear to this opera of steeples. Diffuse over the whole the buzzing of half a million of human beings, the eternal murmur of the river, the infinite piping of the wind, the grave and distant quartet of the four forests, placed like immense organs on the four hills of the horizon; soften down as with a demitint all that is too shrill and too harsh in the central mass of sound,—and say if you know anything in the world more rich, more gladdening, more dazzling, than that tumult of bells—than that furnace of music—than those ten thousand brazen tones, breathed all at once from flutes of stone three hundred feet high—than that city which is but one orchestra—than that symphony rushing and roaring like a tempest.” All these matters, we agreed, were very fine; but there is nothing, after all, like the associations which early infancy attaches to the well-known and long-remembered chimes of our own parish steeple; and no magic can equal the effect on our ear when returning after long absence in foreign, and perhaps happier countries. As we perfectly coincided in the truth of this observation, I added, that long ago, while at Rome, I had thrown my ideas into the shape of a song, which I would sing him to the tune of the “Groves.”

	THE BELLS OF SHANDON
	Sabbata Pango,
	Funera Plango,
	Solemnia Clango.
	—Inscription on an old bell.
	WITH deep affection
	And recollection
	I often think of
	Those Shandon bells,
	Whose sounds so wild would,
	In days of childhood,
	Fling round my cradle
	Their magic spells.
	On this I ponder
	Where’er I wander,
	And thus grow fonder,
	Sweet Cork, of thee;
	With thy bells of Shandon,
	That sound so grand on
	The pleasant waters
	Of the River Lee.
	I’ve heard bells chiming
	Full many a clime in,
	Tolling sublime in
	Cathedral shrine;
	While at a glib rate
	Brass tongues would vibrate,
	But all their music
	Spoke naught like thine;
	For memory, dwelling
	On each proud swelling
	Of the belfry, knelling
	Its bold notes free,
	Made the bells of Shandon
	Sound far more grand on
	The pleasant waters
	Of the River Lee.
	I’ve heard the bells tolling
	Old Adrian’s Mole in,
	Their thunder rolling
	From the Vatican,
	And cymbals glorious,
	Swinging uproarious
	In the gorgeous turrets
	Of Notre Dame;
	But thy sounds were sweeter
	Than the dome of Peter
	Flings o’er the Tiber,
	Pealing solemnly.
	Oh! the bells of Shandon
	Sound far more grand on
	The pleasant waters
	Of the River Lee.
	There’s a bell in Moscow,
	While on tower and kiosk, O!
	In Saint Sophia
	The Turkman gets,
	And loud in air
	Calls men to prayer
	From the tapering summit
	Of tall minarets.
	Such empty phantom
	I freely grant them;
	But there’s an anthem
	More dear to me,—
	’Tis the bells of Shandon,
	That sound so grand on
	The pleasant waters
	Of the River Lee.

    Shortly afterwards Moore published his “Evening Bells, a Petersburg Air.” But any one can see that he only rings a few changes on my Roman ballad, cunningly shifting the scene as far north as he could, to avoid detection. He deserves richly to be sent on a hurdle to Siberia.

  I do not feel so much hurt at this nefarious “belle’s stratagem” regarding me as at his wickedness towards the man of the round towers; and to this matter I turn in conclusion.

  “Oh, blame not the bard!” some folks will no doubt exclaim, and perhaps think that I have been over-severe on Tommy, in my vindication of O’B. I can only say, that if the poet of all circles and the idol of his own, as soon as this posthumous rebuke shall meet his eye, begins to repent him of his wicked attack on my young friend, and, turning him from his evil ways, betakes him to his proper trade of ballad-making, then shall he experience the comfort of living at peace with all mankind, and old Prout’s blessing shall fall as a precious ointment on his head. In that contingency if (as I understand it to be his intention) he should happen to publish a fresh number of his “Melodies,” may it be eminently successful; and may Power of the Strand, by some more sterling sounds than the echoes of fame, be convinced of the power of song—

	“For it is not the magic of streamlet or hill;
	Oh, no! it is something that sounds in the ‘till!’”

My humble patronage, it is true, cannot do much for him in fashionable circles; for I never mixed much in the beau monde (at least in Ireland), during my lifetime, and can be of no service, of course, when I’m dead; nor will his “Melodies,” I fear, though well adapted to mortal pianofortes, answer the purposes of that celestial choir in which I shall then be an obscure but cheerful vocalist. But as I have touched on this great topic of mortality, let Moore recollect that his course here below, however harmonious in the abstract, must have a finale; and at his last hour let him not treasure up for himself the unpleasant retrospect of young genius nipped in the bud by the frost of his criticism, or glad enthusiasm’s early promise damped by inconsiderate sneers. O’Brien’s book can, and will, no doubt, afford much matter for witticism and merriment to the superficial, the unthinking, and the profane; but to the eye of candor it ought to have presented a page richly fraught with wondrous research—redolent with all the perfumes of Hindoostan; its leaves, if they failed to convince, should, like those of the mysterious lotus, have inculcated silence; and if the finger of meditation did not rest on every line, and pause on every period, the volume, at least, should not be indicated to the vulgar by the finger of scorn. Even granting that there were in the book some errors of fancy, of judgment, or of style, which of us is without reproach in our juvenile productions? and though I myself am old, I am the more inclined to forgive the inaccuracies of youth. Again, when all is dark, who would object to a ray of light, merely because of the faulty or flickering medium by which it is transmitted? And if these round towers have been hitherto a dark puzzle and a mystery, must we scare away O’Brien because he approaches with a rude and unpolished, but serviceable lantern? No; forbid it, Diogenes; and though Tommy may attempt to put his extinguisher on the towers and their historian, there is enough of good sense in the British public to make common cause with O’Brien the enlightener. Moore should recollect that knowledge conveyed in any shape will ever find a welcome among us; and that, as he himself beautifully observes in his “Loves of the Angels”—

	“Sunshine broken in the rill,
	Though turn’d aside, is sunshine still.”

For my own part, I protest to heaven, that were I, while wandering in a gloomy forest, to meet on my dreary path the small, faint, glimmering light even of a glow worm, I should shudder at the thought of crushing with my foot that dim speck of brilliancy; and were it only for its being akin to brighter rays, honoring it for its relationship to the stars, I would not harm the little lamplighter as I passed along in the woodland shade.

  If Tommy is rabidly bent on satire, why does he not fall foul of Dr. Lardner, who has got the clumsy machinery of a whole cyclopædia at work, grinding that nonsense which he calls “Useful Knowledge”? Let the poet mount his Pegasus, or his Rosinante, and go tilt a lance against the doctor’s windmill. It was unworthy of him to turn on O’Brien after the intimacy of private correspondence; and if he was inclined for battle, he might have found a seemlier foe. Surely my young friend was not the quarry on which the vulture should delight to pounce, when there are so many literary reptiles to tempt his beak and glut his maw! Heaven knows, there is fair game and plentiful carrion on the plains of Bœotia. In the poet’s picture of the pursuits of a royal bird, we find such sports alluded to—

	“In reluctantes dracones
	Egit amor dapis atque pugnæ.”

Let Moore, then, vent his indignation and satiate his voracity on the proper objects of a volatile of prey; but he will find in his own province of imaginative poetry a kindlier element, a purer atmosphere, for his winged excursions. Long, long may we behold the gorgeous bird soaring through the regions of inspiration, distinguished in his loftier as in his gentler flights, and combining, by a singular miracle of ornithology, the voice of the turtledove, the eagle’s eye and wing, with the plumage of the “bird of Paradise.”