ambition. He could not have aimed at a grace more difficult of attainment,1 and his life was of too short a date to allow him to perfect such a taste; but how far he was likely to have succeeded, the critic may judge from his productions.

I have found among his papers a novel, in rather an imperfect state, which, as soon as I have arranged and collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye.

His

Where Mr. Little was born, or what is the genealogy of his parents, are points in which very few readers can be interested. His life was one of those humble streams which have scarcely a name in the map of life, and the traveller may pass it by without inquiring its source or direction. character was well known to all who were acquainted with him; for he had too much vanity to hide its virtues, and not enough of art to conceal its defects. The lighter traits of his mind may be traced perhaps in his writings; but the few for which he was valued live only in the remembrance of his friends.

T. M.

duction of painful labour, pausing on every word, and balancing every sentence.

'It is a curious illustration of the labour which simplicity requires, that the Ramblers of Johnson, elaborate as they appear, were written with fluency, and seldom required revision; while the simple language of Rousseau, which seems to come flowing from the heart, was the slow pro-was prefixed to them.

2 It need scarcely be said that "Little" was the nom de plume of Moore himself, under which he published his juvenile poems. This Preface

TO J. ATKINSON, Esq.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend Little's Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose. But, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is, you have them in their original form :

'Non possunt nostros multæ, Faustine, lituræ

Emendare jocos; una litura potest.'

I am convinced, however, that though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend,

April 19, 1802.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

POEMS, ETC.

FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.—Juv.

MARK those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew?
The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,
The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?
Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire?
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre?
Do these descend with all that tide of fame
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name?

*

*

Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur

*

spes.-Livy.

Is there no call, no consecrating cause,

Approved by Heaven, ordained by Nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,

And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumbering babes, or innocence in death;
And urgent as the tongue of heaven within,
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;
Along the heart's responding string should run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate-but the one!

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH.

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?
And is it not more sweet than this,
To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss
The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;
With this idea toil is lighter;
This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flowers of Fancy brighter!

The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,
If indolence or syren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander;

"Twill tell thee that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour;

That life and time shall fade away,

While heaven and virtue bloom for ever!

TO A LADY, WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

WHEN, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here-
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear-

Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,

And steal a moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,

Let not the eye, that seldom flows
With feeling tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love;
And they will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find,
And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him,-or, oh! if gentler still,
By female lips my name be blest:
Ah! where do all affections thrill

So sweetly as in woman's breast?

Tell her, that he whose loving themes
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,
Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,
And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That glory oft would claim the lay,

And friendship oft his numbers move;
But whisper then, that, sooth to say,
His sweetest song was given to LOVE!'

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL

MISS

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.

Ego pars.-Virg.

IN wedlock a species of lottery lies,

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;
But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,
Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,

To me such a ticket should roll,

A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;
For what could I do with the whole?

TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

WHY, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-