Thomas Moore Part 6

When the _Angels_ appeared, the press was favourable, but Lady Donegal and a good many more protested vehemently against the application to profane purposes of the scriptural legend, which tells of the sons of G.o.d mating with daughters of men. Publishers are sensitive to this type of criticism, and the Longmans jumped at Moore's offer to remodel the poem, by giving it an Eastern cast, and "turning his poor Angels into Turks." Accordingly a fifth edition was produced, in which the metamorphosis was completed; but the disguise was soon abandoned, and Moore appears to have been ashamed of his concession, for in his preface to the poem in the 1841 edition, no mention is made of this recension.

_The Loves of the Angels_ never attained to the popularity of _Lalla Rookh_, and yet it seems a much more praiseworthy composition. In the first place, Moore had chosen a subject that fell more within his range.

Outside of light verse, his only themes were love and patriotism, and here we have the amatory poet indulging his genius to the full. The whole poem is about love-making--love-making _in excelsis_, and surrounded with accessories so decorative that they remove all hint of reality. One feels instinctively that the fierce accent of pa.s.sion would be out of place here, and, consequently, does not censure the absence of it. His three fallen angels who meet and recall the loves for which they lost heaven, furnish three types of love-story, distinguished with all the care of a troubadour expert in _la gaye science_.

The first angel--one of a lower rank in heaven--is of look "the least celestial of the three," and, before the crisis in his story, has tasted

"That juice of earth, the bane And blessing of man's heart and brain."

He is the one whom woman resisted--for Woman is throughout the poem all but deified; and his lady, to escape from the terrors of his love, as he comes to her after the wine-cup, steals the spell-word from him, and flies off to heaven, whither his wings can no longer follow. The second angel, a spirit of knowledge, is wooed by woman rather than her wooer, and at last is fated to destroy her with the death of Semele. Moore evidently thought that much knowledge was a dangerous thing for the s.e.x.

His ideal of womanhood is rather that depicted in the third story, of which the third angel is the subject, not the narrator. In this angel--

"That amorous spirit, bound By beauty's spell, where'er 'twas found,"

who fell--

"From loving much, Too easy lapse, to loving wrong,"

we may, I think, fairly trace some lineaments of Moore's conception of himself. For this seraph a gentler doom was decreed. He and his nymph are first drawn together by the snare of music, a snare even though in sacred song: for, as the poem tells--

"Love, though unto earth so p.r.o.ne, Delights to take Religion's wing When time or grief hath stained his own.

How near to Love's beguiling brink Too oft entranced Religion lies!

While Music, Music is the link They _both_ still hold by to the skies."

The lovers meet at the altar, but they appeal to the altar to consecrate their vows. And thus the poem closes with a pa.s.sage in celebration of connubial love, which, even though it perhaps seemed to Lady Donegal too bold a gloss on the text of Genesis, may very well have pleased the poet's Bessy; for we can be very certain that the poet was thinking more of Bessy than of Genesis when he wrote it. I shall quote the whole pa.s.sage, which contains some lines that have hardly their equal in Moore's writings--notably the fine strain beginning, "For humble was their love,"--and, further on, the closing period which recalls, yet not by imitation, Wordsworth's scarcely more beautiful tribute to his wife:--

"Sweet was the hour, though dearly won, And pure, as aught of earth could he, For then first did the glorious sun Before Religion's altar see Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and die.

Blest union! by that Angel wove, And worthy from such hands to come; Safe, sole asylum, in which Love, When fall'n or exiled from above, In this dark world can find a home.

"And though the spirit had transgress'd, Had, from his station 'mong the blest Won down by woman's smile, allow'd Terrestrial pa.s.sion to breathe o'er The mirror of his heart, and cloud G.o.d's image, there so bright before-- Yet never did that Power look down On error with a brow so mild; Never did Justice wear a frown Through which so gently Mercy smiled.

"For humble was their love--with awe And trembling like some treasure kept, That was not theirs by holy law-- Whose beauty with remorse they saw, And o'er whose preciousness they wept.

Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot, Was in the hearts of both--but most In Nama's heart, by whom alone Those charms, for which a heaven was lost, Seem'd all unvalued and unknown; And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, And hid hers glowing on his breast, Even bliss was humbled by the thought-- 'What claim have I to be so blest?'

Still less could maid, so meek, have nursed Desire of knowledge--that vain thirst, With which the s.e.x hath all been cursed, From luckless Eve to her, who near The Tabernacle stole to hear The secrets of the angels: no-- To love as her own Seraph loved, With Faith, the same through bliss and woe Faith, that, were even its light removed, Could, like the dial, fix'd remain, And wait till it shone out again;-- With Patience that, though often bow'd By the rude storm, can rise anew; And Hope that, ev'n from Evil's cloud, Sees sunny Good half breaking through!

This deep, relying Love, worth more In heaven than all a Cherub's lore-- This Faith, more sure than aught beside, Was the sole joy, ambition, pride Of her fond heart--th' unreasoning scope Of all its views, above, below-- So true she felt it that to _hope_, To _trust_, is happier than to _know_.

"And thus in humbleness they trod, Abash'd, but pure before their G.o.d; Nor e'er did earth behold a sight So meekly beautiful as they, When, with the altar's holy light Full on their brows, they knelt to pray, Hand within hand, and side by side.

Two links of love, awhile untied From the great chain above, but fast Holding together to the last!

Two fallen Splendours, from that tree, Which buds with such eternally, Shaken to earth, yet keeping all Their light and freshness in the fall.

"Their only punishment, (as wrong, However sweet, must bear its brand,) Their only doom was this--that, long As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here--the same, Throughout all time, in heart and frame-- Still looking to that goal sublime, Whose light remote, but sure, they see; Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time, Whose home is in Eternity!

Subject, the while, to all the strife True Love encounters in this life-- The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain; The chill, that turns his warmest sighs To earthly vapour, ere they rise; The doubt he feeds on, and the pain That in his very sweetness lies:-- Still worse, th' illusions that betray His footsteps to their s.h.i.+ning brink; That tempt him, on his desert way Through the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas!-- But he again must sighing pa.s.s On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease.

"All this they bear, but, not the less, Have moments rich in happiness-- Blest meetings, after many a day Of widowhood pa.s.sed far away, When the loved face again is seen Close, close, with not a tear between-- Confidings frank, without control, Pour'd mutually from soul to soul; As free from any fear or doubt As is that light from chill or stain, The sun into the stars sheds out, To be by them shed back again!-- That happy minglement of hearts, Where, chang'd as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts, To find a new one happier far!

Such are their joys--and, crowning all, That blessed hope of the bright hour, When, happy and no more to fall, Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power, Rise up rewarded for their trust In Him, from whom all goodness springs, And shaking off earth's soiling dust From their emanc.i.p.ated wings, Wander for ever through those skies Of radiance, where Love never dies!"

There is nothing else in the poem at all so good as this. And even this would gain considerably by condensation, even by simple excisions. But the writing is consistently polished, easy, and--short of inspiration--even excellent. The opening may be quoted for a fine example:--

"'Twas when the world was in its prime, When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory, and young Time Told his first birthdays by the sun; When, in the light of Nature's dawn Rejoicing, men and angels met On the high hill and sunny lawn, Ere sorrow came, or Sin had drawn 'Twixt man and heav'n her curtain yet!

When earth lay nearer to the skies Than in those days of crime and woe, And mortals saw without surprise, In the mid air, angelic eyes Gazing upon this world below."

Moore had abandoned the heroic couplet, and also the anapaestic measure, in favour of the eight-syllabled iambic, used with skilful variations of rhyme. And it is a proof of his matured judgment, that there is none of the tendency to melodrama which disfigures _Lalla Rookh_. He had realised that horror was not for him to convert to beauty; he tears no pa.s.sion to tatters. Indeed, in the one instance where he plunges into a melodramatic subject, describing the fate of Lilis shrivelled to ashes by the embrace of her lover, and her unblest kiss, printed with "h.e.l.l's everlasting element," the vehemence is more impressive because more restrained.

At the same time, it does not seem probable that any current of taste will bring back either the _Loves of the Angels_ or _Lalla_ into popularity. Everywhere, even in the beautiful pa.s.sage on wedlock's consolations, ornament is pushed to redundancy; there is no concentration in the style. The same looseness of texture may be observed in Scott and Byron, but Scott and Byron have behind their work a weight of personality which is lacking in Moore. They are moreover closer in touch with reality than Moore, who attributes to himself in the Diary "that kind of imagination which is chilled by the real scene and can best describe what it has not seen, merely taking it from the descriptions of others." He quotes Milton and Dante as instances where this kind of imagination produces the n.o.blest work. One can only say--and Moore would have been prompt to agree--that Thomas Moore was neither Dante nor Milton; and for poets of a lower order we want close touch with fact. Moore's gift, indeed, was not imagination. His highest talent lay, like that of Horace, in giving expression to common emotions, which belong rather to a race, or a cla.s.s, than to an individual, and which are consequently very general, though not very poignant, in their appeal.

A much higher rank may be claimed for him as a writer of satiric verse than of romantic narrative. The satiric inspiration with him long outlasted the other, for the _Loves of the Angels_ was virtually the last poem published under his own name.[1] But under his other incarnation, as Thomas Brown the Younger, he contributed squibs to various newspapers and issued volumes for another dozen of years. The _Odes on Cash, Catholics, and other matters_, collected in 1828, show him to advantage, and we find something of the "wonted fires" even in _The Fudges in England_, published so late as 1835, after his brain had begun to flag. But for the top of his achievement in this kind one would always turn to the volume published a few months after The _Loves of the Angels_. This was the _Fables for the Holy Alliance and Rhymes on the Road_, comprising the work which he had cast and recast so often in Paris, together with a considerable handful of occasional verses.

From this general laudation, the _Rhymes on the Road_, Moore's impressions of Switzerland and Italy, must be excepted. Nothing in them repays perusal but the "Introductory Rhymes," with their ingenious and erudite discussion of the places and methods in which poets may compose--where Moore incidentally alludes to a favourite theory and practice of his own, which he supported by the example of Milton, as well as that here cited:--

"Herodotus wrote most in bed, And Richerand, a French physician, Declares the clockwork of the head Goes best in that reclined position."

There is also a good skit on the ubiquitous English tourist, which ends with the vision of

"Some Mrs. Hopkins, taking tea And toast upon the wall of China."

But for the rest, we have serious lucubrations--a long, long way after _Childe Harold_--upon Venice, Florence, the first view of Mont Blanc, Rousseau's abode, and other such moving themes. It is a vast relief to turn to the _Fables_, of which there are eight; and if one reader thinks the first the best, with its description of all the royalties at dinner in an Ice Palace on the Neva, and the general confusion when the Ice Palace takes to melting, it is odds but the next will choose another for his favourite. Most of them have a Proem, and one may quote the Proem and part of the Fable of "The Little Grand Lama."

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese, The daughter of a learn'd Law Doctor, Who had with all the subtleties Of old and modern jurists stock'd her, Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said, And over hearts held such dominion, That when her father, sick in bed, Or busy, sent her, in his stead, To lecture on the Code Justinian, She had a curtain drawn before her, Lest, if her eyes were seen, the students Should let their young eyes wander o'er her, And quite forget their jurisprudence.

Just so it is with Truth, when _seen_, Too dazzling far,--'tis from behind A light, thin allegoric screen, She thus can safest teach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckon'd-- Some say his _first_ tooth, some his _second_.

Chronologers and Nurses vary, Which proves historians should be wary.

We only know th' important truth, His Majesty _had_ cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted,-- As well all Lama's subjects may be, And would have giv'n their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby.

Throned as he was by Right Divine-- (What Lawyers call _Jure Divino_, Meaning a right to yours, and mine, And everybody's goods and rhino,) Of course, his faithful subjects' purses, Were ready with their aids and succours; Nothing was seen but pension'd Nurses, And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet, Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye G.o.ds, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates!

What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles!

What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!

But no--If Thibet _had_ M.P.'s, They were far better bred than these; Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dent.i.tion.

But short this calm:--for, just when he Had reach'd th' alarming age of three, When Royal natures, and, no doubt, Those of _all_ n.o.ble beasts break out-- The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh; Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old Generals' toes: Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode c.o.c.khorse on the City maces, And shot from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces.

In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous, G.o.d bless him!

That his Chief Nurse--with ev'n the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him.

Nay, ev'n the persons most inclined Through thick and thin, for Kings to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind, Which they did _not_) an odious pickle.

Praed himself never equalled the ease and gaiety of these admirable compositions, and their only defect as satire is that they are too gay and too good-humoured, though certainly not too respectful. Moore's shafts have no poison: there is no strength of hatred to drive home the barb. Yet the sincerity is real, and here and there the wit leaps into real poetry, as in this stanza from "The Torch of Liberty"--

"I saw th' expectant nations stand, To catch the coming flame in turn;-- I saw, from ready hand to hand, The clear, though struggling, glory burn."

For finish and force these productions are far ahead of the earlier verses of the _Postbag_ and _Fudge Family in Paris_: they are also clear of the rhetoric which occasionally overloads the latter. But none of them quite reaches the pitch attained in the lines on the Death of Sheridan (reprinted in the 1823 volume) which were based on the report that the Prince of Wales, after repeated neglect of entreaties, sent at last a gift of 200 to the dying man, who, knowing it too late, returned the missive. A few stanzas must be cited.

"How proud they can press to the fun'ral array Of one whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow;-- How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by n.o.bles to-morrow!

"And Thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pa.s.s'd, Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam, Which his friends.h.i.+p and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:--