Nor was it all only tinkling sound that he gave back. For proof I cite one or two bits:-- “Then I sing the wild song, ’twas once such a pleasure to hear, When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off thro’ the vale, my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.” And again:-- “Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine. Go sleep, with the Sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine. “If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover Have throbbed at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own.” This is better than dynamite to stir Ireland’s best pulses, even now. _Lalla Rookh._ Mr. Moore had his little country vacations--among them, that notable stay up in the lovely county of Derbyshire, near to Ashbourne and Dovedale, and the old fishing grounds of Walton and of Cotton--where he wrote the larger part of his first considerable poem, _Lalla Rookh_--which had amazing success, and brought to its author the sum of £3,000. But I do not think that what inspiration is in it came to him from the hollows or the heights of Derbyshire; I should rather trace its pretty Oriental confusion of sound and scenes to the jingle of London chandeliers. Yet the web, the gossamer, the veils and the flying feet do not seem to touch ground anywhere in England, but shift and change and grow out of his Eastern readings and dreams.