But all in humble life is not high--all in high life is not low; and there is as much to guard against in hovel as in hall--in "auld clay-bigging" as in marble palace. Burns sometimes wrote like a mere boor--Moore has too often written like a mere man of fashion. But take them both at their best--and both are inimitable. Both are national poets--and who shall say, that if Moore had been born and bred a peasant, as Burns was, and if Ireland had been such a land of knowledge, and virtue, and religion as Scotland is--and surely, without offence, we may say that it never was, and never will be--though we love the Green Island well--that with his fine fancy, warm heart, and exquisite sensibilities, he might not have been as natural a lyrist as Burns; while, take him as he is, who can deny that in richness, in variety, in grace, and in the power of art, he is superior to the ploughman. Of "Lalla Rookh" and "The Loves of the Angels," we defy you to read a page without admiration; but the question recurs, and it is easily answered, we need not say in the negative, did Moore ever write a Great Poem? Let us make a tour of the Lakes. Rydal Mount! Wordsworth! The Bard! Here is the man who has devoted his whole life to poetry. It is his profession. He is a poet just as his brother is a clergyman. He is the Head of the Lake School, just as his brother is Master of Trinity. Nothing in this life and in this world has he had to do, beneath sun, moon, and stars, but "To murmur by the living brooks A music sweeter than their own."