Scotsmen shall cease to treasure in their hearts the "Highland Mary," the "Cottar's Saturday Night," and the "Song of Bannockburn." Mr. Moore has attempted to do for Ireland the same service which Burns rendered to Scotland; but, although his genius is undoubted, he has failed to do so. It will be said, that the national character of his countrymen did not furnish such materials as fell to the share of his rival, and there is no doubt that so far this is true. The Irish have not the same near recollections of heroic actions, or the same proud and uncontaminated feeling of independence as the Scots. Their country has been conquered, perhaps oppressed, and the memory of those barbarous times in which they were ruled by native reguli is long since faded into dimness and insignificance. The men themselves, moreover, are deficient, it may be, in some of those graver points of character, which afford the best grappling places for the power of poetry. All this may, perhaps, be admitted; but surely it will not be contended, but that much, both of purpose and instrument, was still left within the reach of him that would aspire to be the national poet of the Irish. Their religious feelings are not, indeed, of so calm and dignified a nature as those of some nations, but they are strong, ardent, passionate, and, in the hands of one worthy to deal with them, might furnish abundantly the elements both of the beautiful and the sublime. Their character is not so consistent as it might be, but it yields to none in the fine attributes of warmth, of generosity, and the whole chivalry of the heart. Were these things likely to have been left out of the calculation of a genuine poet of Ireland?-Mr. Moore addresses nothing to his countrymen that should make them listen to him long. He seems to have “no part nor lot" with them in the things which most effectually distinguish them from others. He writes for the dissipated fashionables of Dublin, and is himself the idol in the saloons of absentees; but he has never composed a single verse which I could imagine to be impressed upon the memory, nor brought together a single groupe of images calculated to ennoble the spirit of an Irish peasant. Were the Irish to acknowledge, in this man, their Burns or Camoëns, they would convince Europe, that they are entirely deficient in every thing that renders men worthy of the name of a nation. The "Exile of Erin," and the "O'Connor's Child" of Campbell, are worth more to Ireland than all the poetry of Moore. GERBRAND BREDERODE. GERBRAND BREDERODE was born at Amsterdam, on the 16th March, 1585. His works, during his life-time, were held in great esteem; but they have of late years been comparatively neglected by his countrymen. Whether this arises from his occasional want of polish, or from a change in public opinion, or from both of these causes combined, is now difficult to determine. Yet it appears to us that he has been rather unfairly treated. Even Jeronimo de Vries, in his Specimen of a History of Dutch Poetical Literature, although generally the most lenient of critics, has, we think, barely done him justice. Brederode had not, it is true, the imagination, and energy, and sublimity of Hooft and Vondel, and others of his contemporaries; but he possessed abundant natural feeling, an almost feminine sensibility, and, in most instances, an easy and harmonious flow of versification. Nor, although living in the golden age of Dutch literature, did he ever abandon his originality of thought and expression, and condescend to be the mere imitator of even the most splendid models which his country has produced. It should also be borne in mind, that he was an utter stranger to the learned languages, and that he died when only thirty-three years of age. He was principally celebrated for his Comedies, into which he introduced the language of the lower classes of Amsterdam with great effect. It is said, that he often attended the fish-market and similar places, to collect materials for his various pieces. His Poems were published at Amsterdam, in 1622, by Cornelis Van der Plasse, under the titles of Het Boertigh Liedt-Boeck (Facetious Song-Book); De Groote Bron der Minnen (The Great Fountain of Love); and Aendachtigh Liedt-Boeck (Meditative SongBook). The first edition, published at Leyden, by Govert Basson, was followed by a pirated one, at Amsterdam. To the latter, he thus alludes, in the Preface to his Boertigh Liedt-Boeck: "Next appeared a spurious edition at Amsterdam, containing, among other things, lewd and lascivious verses, which I, of course, gained the credit of having written; but the honour that was thus conferred upon me, and the gratitude that I owe to these my benefactors, I shall take an opportunity of acknowledging in a manner that they will remember. For truly all pure-hearted and generous persons will now pause ere they publish any work, however creditable to their feelings and morality, seeing unlawfulness has risen to such a pitch, that any individual may give his disgusting obscenities to the world, under the cloak of another's name." Brederode died on the 23d of August, 1618. The following is from his FOUNTAIN OF LOVE. "If all were mine that Jove divine Of pomp or show, or dazzling glow, If I must thee surrender, In payment for their splendour. No! I would seek the gods, and ṣay, And bow'd by poverty and care, And dwell without my loved-one there. |