Note 45 — COUNSELLOR LYSIGHT.
Reading edition
Pastoral poetry, whether classic, amatory, or merely rural, owes its chief beauty to simplicity. Far-fetched points and fantastic versification destroy its generic attribute; and their use reminds one of the fashion of harmonising the popular melodies of a country, in order that young ladies may screech them with more complicated execution.
Thus, I prefer, upon the whole, my deceased friend Lysight’s words written to an old tune, to those of my celebrated living friend, Mr. Thomas Moore; and think the Ounagh of the one likely to be quite as attractive a girl as the Mary of the other, notwithstanding all the finery wherewith the mention of the latter is invested. But our readers shall judge for themselves. We have given the commencement of Mr. Lysight’s version: here followeth that of Mr. Moore’s.
The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now with “lustre meek”
Illumin’d all the pale flowers,
Like hope that lights the mourner’s cheek.
I said (while
The moon’s smile
Play’d o’er a stream in dimpling bliss)
The moon looks
On many brooks—
The brook can see no moon but this.
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks on thee,
While, Oh! I feel there is but one—
One Mary in the world for me!—
Had not my talented friend garnished the above ditty with a note, admitting that he had pilfered his Irish Melody from an Englishman’s brains (Sir William Jones’s), I should have passed over so extravagant an attempt to manufacture simplicity. I therefore hope my friend will in future either confide in his own supreme talents, or not be so candid as to spoil his song by his sincerity. “It is the devil (said Skirmish) to desert; but it’s a d—d deal worse to own it!”
I think Dean Swift’s sample of Love Songs (though written near a century ago) has formed an admirable model for a number of modern sonnets; it should be much esteemed, since it is copied by so many of our minstrels.
LOVE SONG BY DEAN SWIFT.
Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart:
I a slave in thy dominions—
Nature must give way to art, &c. &c.