“It has been often said, and still oftener felt, that in our music is found the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance succeeded by the languor of despondency—a burst of turbulence, dying away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next—and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off, or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are even many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems applicable. Sometimes, for instance, when the strain is open and spirited, yet here and there shaded by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose, marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit, forever, the land of their birth—like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated.” In writing to these melodies, the poet’s task, a most difficult one, was to express sentiments in harmony with the air. To give an intelligible utterance to the feelings pent up in music, whether gay, solemn or mournful. At the time he wrote, Irish patriotism was in the ascendant, and many of the songs had a political bearing. So apparent was this, that the fact was noticed, we believe, by the government, or at least by some high in office. In the following well-known song, so full of the purest pathos, it is not clear to what the poet particularly alluded. If there was an allusion, as is not improbable, to Emmett and Miss Curren, Moore deemed it but an act of prudence to withhold the fact. “Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. “Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same, Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. “Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this— Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”