Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, Vol. 71, No. 439, May, 1852Various
History
Blackwood's Edinburgh magazine, Vol. 71, No. 439, May, 1852
Various
England -- Periodicals; Scotland -- Periodicals
Even the habits of Republicanism were found too primitive to be
pleasing. He had the honour of an interview with Jefferson, then
president; and this “four years’ monarch” received him in his nightgown
and slippers, and stretched at his length on a sofa. Moore recoiled at
this display of _nonchalance_, and would have been perfectly justified
in turning on his heel, and leaving this vulgarism to the indulgence of
“showing a Britisher” the manners of a “free and intelligent citizen.”
This rough specimen of freedom disgusted him, as well it might; and
though Republicanism in rhyme might still amuse his fancy, he evidently
shrank from the reality ever after.
Canada increased his poetical sketches. He wrote some spirited Odes on
its stern landscape, and some bitter lines on the United States, in
revenge for its extinction of his dreams. But, with America, he left all
revolution behind him, and never more cast a “longing, lingering look”
on the subversion of thrones.
On his return to Europe, he found it necessary to consider into what new
path he was to turn. He had long left the hope of shining on the bench;
office was now closed upon him; authorship was his only resource; and to
authorship he turned with all the quickness of his nature, sharpened by
the Roman’s
“MAGISTER ARTIS, VENTER.”
The exertion became more important to him, from his having made a
disinterested match; and, in the spirit of a poet, been contented to
take beauty as the marriage portion. He now retired into the country,
and prepared for a life of vigorous authorship. In this choice, he
evidently consulted his immediate circumstances more than the natural
direction of his mind. Such a man was made for cities; all his habits
were social, and he must have languished for society. The cooing of
doves and the songs of nightingales were not the music to accompany such
verses as these—
“Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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