GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.

NO. I.—THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

There are two things that never grow old—good poetry and good music. They live in the heart like the memory of a beloved friend. Good poetry is the out-birth of real emotions. It is the language of the affections. When the heart feels deeply its utterance takes the form of poetry; and when it seeks to vary its affections and give them a deeper and more expressive form, it seeks the aid of music. Poetry, in coming into the mind, touches it with a sense of beauty, moves its sympathies, or elevates it into a higher appreciation of the pure and heroic; but when music is married to immortal verse, all becomes more intense and real. How fully this is perceived when we hear some familiar ballad or fine lyric sung with skill and taste. We saw beauties before, but now we feel them.

With Moore’s exquisite Irish Melodies, we have been familiar from childhood as poetry and music united. “The Meeting of the Waters,” “The Last Rose of Summer,” “The Legacy,” “Come Rest in this Bosom,” and a dozen besides that could be named, we think of but to love. Fashionable they are not, because the fashion of this world changeth, and in fashionable assemblages we rarely hear them; but now and then a gentle friend warbles them for us in private—or some one bold enough for an innovation, ventures upon a “Melody” in public. How the old sounds stir the heart! How old associations and old feelings come up from the dim past!

The words of these melodies were all written to old airs, familiar throughout Ireland—native airs born from the hearts of the people, and, like links in a golden chain, binding their hearts together. We need not say how well Moore performed his task. Their popularity, for nearly half a century, would make praise an idle tribute. Before these songs were written, the wildly-beautiful, tender, and often spirit-thrilling melodies of the people found only an imperfect utterance. But, when words in correspondence with the music were given, the whole island broke forth into song as by a single impulse. And, soon Albion took up the strains responsive to her sister Erin, (we wish she had not proved to Erin so unnatural a sister,) and for once, at least, found something to admire and love that was born in the Emerald Island.

A remarkable instance of the power of some of these melodies over the heart is that related of Lucretia Davidson. She was particularly sensitive to music, and there was a song, “Moore’s Farewell to his Harp,” to which she took a great fancy, and which always affected the fine poetical organism of her mind in a peculiar manner. She wished to hear it only in the twilight. Then she would listen to the strain until she became cold, pale, and almost fainting. It was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to the verses addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister.

It was not the words of this song that alone affected Miss Davidson. Without the melody in which they found a more perfect utterance, she might never have thought of them after the first reading. But the music spoke to her in the heart’s own language, and her spirit felt an intense sympathy.

Of this particular native air, Moore says, it is “one that defies all poetry to do it justice.”

Among the most tender and beautiful of the Irish Melodies is that known as “The Meeting of the Waters,” Maclise’s exquisite illustration of which we give in the present number of Graham. In the summer of 1807 Moore paid a visit to the Vale of Avoca, in the county of Wicklow, where the two rivers Avon and Avoca meet, a most lovely and enchanting spot. This visit suggested the song which has since been so wide a favorite, and which has associated the vale of Avoca with all that is charming and romantic.

“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

“Yet, it was not that nature had shed o’er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,

Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.

“ ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve

When we see them reflected from looks that we love;

“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

The vale of Avoca, thus made classic ground, thousands have since visited; and the tourist through Ireland would as soon think of neglecting the lakes of Killarney as “the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.”

From among the many descriptions of this beautiful spot, we will select that given by an American lady who visited Ireland in 1845. It is brief but eloquent. She says —

“It was Ireland’s summer twilight, lingering long, as though loth to draw the curtain closely about a bright isle in a dark world like this. It was early in July, the rich foliage had attained its maturity, and not a seared leaf was sprinkled on bush or tree, to warn that autumn was near. For the first mile the road was smooth and broad, lined with trees, now and then a white gate with white stone pillars, opening to some neat cottage or domain; the glowing streaks of the setting sun had not left the western sky, and glimmered through the trees; while the air, made fragrant by the gentle shower, diffused through body and mind that calmness which seemed to whisper, ‘Be silent; it is the Vale of Avoca you are entering.’ We descended a declivity, and the vale opened upon us at ‘the Meeting of the Waters.’ The tree under which Moore sat when he wrote the sweet poem had been pointed to me in the morning. We now stood near the union of the two streams, where the poet says,

‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’

The rich variety of wood; the still, clear, limpid water; the hill and vale, in some parts dark and wild, in others light and soft, ever and anon relieving the eye by some new variety; but above all, the pleasant association that this vale, however dark and deep its recesses, harbors not a venomous serpent or reptile—no, not even the buzz of the mosquito is heard—made it unlike all others. We rode three miles, scarcely uttering a syllable all the while; a holy repose seemed to rest on this hallowed spot, as when it first bloomed under the hand of its Maker, and imagination was prompted to say, as no serpent has ever coiled here, the contaminating touch of sin has not left its impress.

“Never did I leave a spot more reluctantly; it was a night scene which never has faded from my eye, and I hope never will.

‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’

In the deep silence, the voice of God and the soft whisper of angels seemed to be there. These voices said kindly, ‘There is mercy yet for poor erring man.’ It appeared like the bow of the covenant, telling us to look and remember that though this world has been cursed by sin, yet a new heaven and earth are promised, of which this is a shadowy resemblance.

“The borders of this valley are interspersed with gentlemen’s seats, and here and there dotted with the white-washed cottages of the peasants; and the rich cluster of foliage upon the hill sides, upon bush and tree, almost persuade you that the dew of Hermon has fallen upon them. Stranger, when you visit Ireland, visit the Vale of Avoca. If you love God, here you will see him in a picture that must be read; if your stay be limited, waste it not in decyphering a time-defaced stone, telling the bloody deeds of some ancient warrior, or the austerity of some long-lived ascetic; but linger in this spot; stop at the neat little hotel, erected on purpose for the accommodation of the stranger; and morning, noon, and night explore its never-dying beauties of light and shade. Three times did I go through, and when I turned away at last, I felt that

‘I could stay there forever to wander and weep.’ ”

T. S. A.