The London _Morning Chronicle_ furnishes a biography of Moore, which we slightly abridge. With him, says the _Chronicle_, is snapped the last tie, save perhaps one, represented by the veteran Rogers, which connects the present generation with the outburst of "all the talents" which signalized the opening of the century. That great kindling of genius--embracing almost all sides of imaginative literature, of criticism and philosophy--is becoming more a thing of history than of fact. Year by year, the lights are going out. Wordsworth was the last extinguished before Moore; and now, to all intents and purposes, the great galaxy which poured such a flood of light on the literature of fifty years ago--which extinguished Rosa Matilda fiction and Delia Cruscan poetry--substituted true criticism for technical carping upon philological points, and established new styles in every branch of the _belles-lettres_--this great constellation may now be said to have disappeared. One of the brightest, if not of the largest stars, has long been obscured, and is now quite put out. The fame of Moore is fairly a matter of discussion. It cannot, we believe, be denied that much of his serious and more ambitious verse, founded on promptings of a more luscious and florid fancy than the present tastes incline to admit, and no inconsiderable portion even of his lyric pieces,--refined to attenuation--are less read and admired than they were a score or thirty years ago. A severer and sterner school of poetry has succeeded--one of deeper feeling and more sober thought; and the representatives of those who revelled in _Lalla Rookh_, and delighted in the strains of Mr. Little, now generally address themselves to more staid and philosophic musings. The _Irish Melodies_, too--exquisite as is their word-music--fanciful as is their conception--delightful as is their playfulness, and touching as is their pathos--even the _Irish Melodies_, we believe are declining in popular estimation. The reasons are obvious. In the first place, the _Irish Melodies_ are not particularly Irish; they have grace, sparkling fancy, delicious feeling; but they are too fine-spun to do the work-a-day duty of popular songs. As literary performances, nine-tenths of Burns's are inferior to Moore's; and all Dibdin's are immeasurably beneath them. Yet the probability is that _When Willie Brewed_, and _Poor Tom Bowling_, will be in the full tide of popularity, where _Rich and Rare_, and _Oh Breathe not His Name_, will be unsung and forgotten. In a certain circle, and among people of a certain reading and appreciation, Moore will live as long as the language; but his genius was delicate and acute rather than catholic and strong. He had a rich play of fancy, but none of the soaring imagination of Shelley or Byron. His mind, in fact, was a first-class second-rate. It had no pretensions to stand in the line of the giants of his time. Brightly fanciful, rather than continuously imaginative--teeming with