but it has already tempted me into too much

egotism;

and perhaps,

"next to singing, the most foolish thing
"Is gravely to harangue on what we sing!"

THOMAS MOORE.

Mayheld-Cottage, Ashbourn.

MORE'S MELODIES.

ON NATIONAL MUSIC.

A MELOLOGUE.

The Melologue subjoined was recited at the Kilkenny Theatre, in Ireland, at the close of the season, June 1810. The performers at the theatre were gentlemen of the neighbouring country, and the profits of the performance were given to the different charitable institutions in Kilkenny. The Melologue was written and recited by THOMAS MOORE, Esq.

(Strain of Music.)

THERE breathes the language known and felt,
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever Rage can rouse, or Pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,

Where oft, of old, on some high tower,

The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet

power,

That when she heard the well known lay,
No worlds could keep her from his arms away.

To those bleak realms of polar night,
Where the youth of Lapland's sky,
Bids his rapid reindeer fly,

And sings, along the darkling waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow.
Oh Music! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realms presides,
The spell-bound tides

Of human passions rise and fall from thee.

(Greek Air.)

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilyssus' silvery springs,

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn,
While, by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return;
When Athens nurs'd her olive-bough

With hands by tyrant power unchained,
And braided for the Muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstained;
When heroes trod each classic field,
Where coward feet now faintly falter,
And every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar.

(Greek Air, interrupted by a trumpet.)

Hark! tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears—
Oh-many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier, when that sound she

hears,

And, tho' her fond heart sinks with fears,

Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound.-
See! from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war,
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights,
A conqueror oft, a hero never;
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain-rill,
And gushed for ever!

Oh Music! here, even here,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wonderous power;
There is an air, which oft among the rocks
Of his own lov'd land at evening hour

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks;

Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts, and bring about his knees

The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him, why

He wandered from his hut to scenes like these? Vain, vain, is then the trumpet's brazen roar, Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears, And the stern eyes that looked for blood before, 、 Now, melting, mournful, lose themselves in

tears!

(Ranz des Vaches, interrupted by a trumpet.)