While her laugh, full of glee, without any control,
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul,
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek or eyes, for she brightened all over;
Like any fair lake which the breeze is upon
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun!
No wonder “the magnificent son of Acbar” should be set excessively beside himself on account of such a miracle of womanhood.
Moore shows himself very incapable of sustaining himself in any flights of imagination to compare at all with the soaring of Shelley or Byron. The sight of his mind is less keen and ardent than theirs, his thoughts feebler and his verse less vigorously constructed. But in his own genial sphere—on the lower sunny slopes of the mountain, he can snatch a thousand warbling graces beyond the art of these louder instruments.
His is the lay that lightly floats,
And his are the murmuring, dying notes