once superseded even the "divine marasquino" on the lips of royalty. The second verse cannot well be understood by the English reader without some little explanation. The unfortunate Irish peasant who cannot well pay the exorbitant rent of an absentee landlord, and is quivering under the fangs of the "middle man," or agent, betakes himself to the loftiest and most unfrequented mountains, where he manufactures the magic beverage, by the smuggled sale of which, he hopes to disencumber himself. His small uncouth rustic still, and the green turf, which he is obliged to use in the process, gives it the smoke flavour, which is alluded to in the second stanza. This manufacture has been made "unlawful" by act of parliament, and the penalty is a fine and nine months' imprisonment. The peasantry have an utter abhorrence of the licensed whiskey, which in their vocabulary is termed, "THE PARLIAMENT." Their excuses, sometimes, when detected and arraigned, are most amusing. The writer of this once saw one of them put upon his trial, which he had contrived to evade at the previous assizes, under pretence of the indisposition of a witness; the real cause was his fear of the then going judge of assize. To his great discomfiture, however, the same judge chose the ensuing circuit. When arraigned, Baron McClelland addressed him-"Well, my lad. I remember you, what have you got to say for yourself this time?" "In troth, little enough, my lord, for you kilt my witness!"-I kill your witness, fellow-what do you mean?" "No offince at all my lord, but sorrow a word of lie there's in it-we were all so Austrated at the last assizes, that my poor Paddy would'nt touch a drop ever since, except the parliament, and it finished him fairly -my lord, you know well it'd pison the devii." Appeals of this sort are by no means unfrequent. The following are the two last stanzas of the Irish "John Barley Corn :” Never was philter form'd with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. To enliven such hearts as are here brought together! Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, And though, perhaps-but breathe it to no one- Which may work too its charm, though now lawless and hidden. We are not fond of accusing poets, and particularly such poets as Mr. Moore, of any thing like plagiarism. He is too orignal to become an imitator of any one-too rich in his own stores to draw upon the coffers of another, but there certainly is a singular, and rather suspicious coincidence in one of the songs of this number, and the lines which we annex, and which are selected from a pretty, and rather unjustly neglected poem, published by Murray in 1813. Ne'er ask the hour-what is it to us The golden moments, lent us thus, Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them over could add to their blisses, I'd number each glorious second; But moments of joy are like Lesbia's kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd. Then fill the cup-what is it to us The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's! Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, Till Care, one summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers, A dial, by way of warning. The parallel lines to which we allude are these: Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken Of public view and sounds of murm'ring men, Of unhewn roots composed, and knarled wood, Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove In front, amid the gay, surrounding flowers, A dial counted the departing hours, On which the sweetest light of summer shone- To count, with passing shade, the hours, Its pensive moral to thy heart. The coincidence cannot fail to strike the reader; it may, how ever, certainly be altogether accidental. The name of the poem is "The Missionary."-There are a number of other very beautiful poems, which our limits will not allow us to select. The poem called the "Parallel" is extremely touching, and quite characteristic of the author. In taking our leave of this volume, which we recommend to all who have "music in their souls," we cannot conclude better than by noticing the great simplicity and beauty of the air to which the words, "Oh banquet not," are set, and by quoting the following fine hymn, which we wish the Neapolitans could have heard in their ranks, before they relinquished the last hope of freedom for the land of song. Oh, the sight entrancing, O'er files, array'd With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! May lead to death, But never to retreating! Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files, array'd With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! Yet, 'tis not helm or feather- Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together, Leave pomps to those who need 'em Adorn but man with freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves, That crawl, where monarchs lead 'em. 'Tis heart alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever! When the morning's beam is glancing With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing! ART. XV.-Legal Lyrics. From the London Magazine. Numerisque fertur Lege solutis. Horace, O. 2, lib. iv. MR. EDITOR, One of our modern philosophers has asserted that poetry pervades the whole system of nature, and that every inhabitant of the earth (I know not whether the observation extends to the other planets) is born a poet. I am perfectly satisfied with his reasoning and his proofs; (as who can be otherwise?) although I am aware that the expression which we were formerly accustomed to quote as the result of philosophical speculation,66 poeta nascitur, non fit," now becomes a mere truism. But I do not consider this nearly so material as the almost universal ignorance that exists among the bulk of mankind, of the powers with which they are endowed,-powers, the exercise of which would add so much to the happiness and enjoyment of themselves and their fellow-poets (I was going to say-creatures)-but which are suffered to sleep, and lie useless in decay. It is true, that, notwithstanding this ignorance, almost all classes of society are daily giving involuntary proofs of their poetical capabilities. In travellers, and dealers in general, we invariably perceive the developement of the fiction of poetry; in the daily-and indeed nightly-cries of London, we hear its music;-in the trades of shoemakers and hosiers, we find its measurement of feet ;-in the accidents of children, and in the performance of pantomimic actors, we may recognize its cadence With a dying, dying fall,— and even in the miscalled vulgarity of swearers, we discover the germs of sublime invocation. The class of society which seems to be most unaware of its poetical temperament, is the profession of the law. Although their study has been charged by some with a very intimate connection with one of the principal constituents of poetry-fiction; -it is apparently of that dry and systematic kind, that few have recognized its relationship to poetry itself. It would, indeed, be difficult to appropriate it to any particular class of poetry. It cannot be called strictly didactic, for where shall we find its morality?-nor descriptive, for who can understand it?-nor humorous, at least suitors deny that-nor pathetic, unless we look at its consequences. It has a touch perhaps of the pastoral, in settlement cases; and of the dramatic in the uncertainty of its issues. Its dullness, it is said, has nothing analogous to poetic genius, whatever it may have to some of its professors. I, Mr. Editor, have the honour to belong to this profession, which I have long considered as scandalized by these depreciating insinuations; and, in order to prove their falsity, and to redeem the poetical character of my brethren, I have lately resolved to reduce all its technicalities into metre, and at all events to hold my legal correspondence in measured lines. If possible, I intend to introduce the practice of charging by stanzas, instead of by folio, being convinced, with the Newcastle Apothecary, who seems to have adopted the same means to obviate a similar objection-that as my clients must have the requisite quantity, which they too often consider to be without reason,—— It is but fair to add a little rhime. As it must be allowed to be of great importance to teach mankind themselves, and to point out to them the talents, the instincts, and, I may say, the properties, they poss‹ ss,--1 conceive, Sir, that in thus endeavouring to sweeten the bitterness of law, to smooth |