What had happened in the interval between the appearance of Moore's wanton, frivolous poetry and the conception of these wonderful songs? They themselves answer the question by suppressing the answer. The fourth Melody begins: "Oh, breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!" There was, then, one whose name might not be named, whose body lay dishonoured in a grave where it might be wept over only in the darkness of night. In the next song, again without any mention of a name, we read: "When he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say, wilt thou weep when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resigned? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee!" That the beloved of these lines is Ireland, we can see at the first glance; but once more a dark veil of anonymity is cast over the man whose reputation was destroyed by his enemies, but who, though declared guilty by them, had been so faithful to the object of his worship. Let the reader turn over a few pages, and he will come upon a poem which is closely connected with the two just quoted. It is a sweet, sad portrait of the betrothed of the anonymous dead hero. "She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note that he loved awaking.-- Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! He had lived for her love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him. Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved Island of Sorrow!" The reader has already divined that the young hero of these touching laments is no other than Moore's old college friend, Robert Emmet. It was undoubtedly this young man's tragic fate which inspired the finest of the songs of freedom contained in the _Irish Melodies_.