Assuming the appropriate name of Little, our author published in 1801, a volume of poems, chiefly amatory, which, though they established his poetical reputation, were severely censured for their warmth and licentiousness. Their success, however, was very considerable, fifteen or sixteen editions being sold within a short time. In the same year he advertised a work entitled "Philosophy of Pleasure;" but this was never published.
Towards the autumn of 1803, Mr. Moore embarked for Bermuda, where he had obtained the appointment of Registrar to the Admiralty. This was a patent place, and of a description so unsuited to his temper of mind, that he fulfilled the duties of it by deputy, but the profits ultimately proved unworthy of Mr. Moore's serious attention; and we believe Mr. Moore has suffered by the villany of this substitute, to an important amount. He likewise visited the United States, and upon his return home, in 1806, he published his remarks on the American character, in a work entitled "Epistles, Odes, and other Poems." The preface to this little work sufficiently established the talent of Mr. Moore, as a prose writer. His opinion of the Americans is also there pretty freely expressed, and some of the poems, like those ascribed to Little, were objectionable in a moral point of view. The work was accordingly attacked with much severity, by Mr. Jeffrey, the editor of the Edinburgh Review: the irritated poet challenged his critic, but the duel was prevented, and the pistols being found loaded with paper pellets, the whole affair ended pleasantly enough.
The fate of Addison, with his Countess Dowager, holding out no encouragement for the ambitious love of Mr. Moore, he wisely and happily allowed his good taste to regulate his choice in a wife, and some years ago married Miss Dyke, a lady of great personal attractions, and accomplished manners, in whose congenial society he passes much of his time in the retirement of an elegant cottage, in Wiltshire, devoting himself chiefly to literary pursuits.
In 1808, Mr. Moore sent to the press "Corruption and Intolerance;" two poems, with notes: addressed to an Englishman, by an Irishman; and in 1809, "The Sceptic," a philosophical satire. These works, of which the first is pungently satirical, are little known; but they are worthy of their author. They were succeeded in 1810, by "A Letter to the Roman Catholics of Dublin." His next production, "Intercepted Letters, or the Two-penny Post Bag, by Thomas Brown, the younger," 1812, was eagerly perused, and fourteen editions of it were printed. Its severities on an elevated personage and the court, will perhaps never be forgotten by the parties. In sparkling wit, keen sarcasm, and humorous pleasantry, it is rivalled only by another volume, entitled "The Fudge Family in Paris," published in 1818, the hero of which is a distinguished poet, and a zealous supporter of the present administration. To this class of Mr. Moore's works belong his "Fables for the Holy Alliance," and "Rhymes on the Road," which deserve, in some respect, a higher reputation than the former volumes.
Mr. Moore appears equally to have cultivated a taste for music as well as for poesy; and the late Dr. Burney was perfectly astonished at his talent which he emphatically called "peculiarly his own." In 1813, Mr. Moore's fame was materially increased by the appearance of his exquisite songs to Sir John Stevenson's selection of Irish Melodies. Some of these songs are among the finest specimens of poetry in our language, and the morality of the whole of them is unexceptionable. They have since been collected into one volume. In 1816, he published "A Series of Sacred Songs, Duets, and Trios," the music to which was composed and selected by himself and Sir John Stevenson.
In 1817, came forth his great work, on which he was known to have been long engaged, and which if it had been his only production, would have carried his name down to posterity as one of the first bards of his time. "Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," would not be an inapplicable motto for this oriental romance, which unites the purest and softest tenderness with the loftiest dignity, and glows in every page with all the fervour of poetry. For the copyright of this poem he is said to have received the sum of 3,000 guineas, and it must have proved a source of immense profit to the publishers.
In 1818, Mr. Moore visited his native city, Dublin, on which occasion our poet was invited to a public dinner, which was graced by a large assemblage of the most distinguished literary and political characters. The Earl of Charlemont took the chair; Mr. Moore sat on his right hand, Mr. Moore, sen. a venerable old gentleman, the father of the poet, was on the left.
On Lord Charlemont proposing "The living Poets of Great Britain," Mr. Moore said—
"Gentlemen, notwithstanding the witty song which you have just heard, and the flattering elevation which the author has assigned me, I cannot allow such a mark of respect to be paid to the illustrious names that adorn the literature of the present day, without calling your attention awhile to the singular constellation of genius, and asking you to dwell a little on the brightness of each "particular star" that forms it. Can I name to you a Byron, without recalling to your hearts recollections of all that his mighty genius has awakened there, his energy, his burning words, his intense passion, that disposition of fine fancy to wander only among the ruins of the heart, to dwell in places which the fire of feeling has desolated, and like the chestnut-tree, that grows best in volcanic soils, to luxuriate most where conflagration of passion has left its mark? Need I mention to you a Scott, that fertile and fascinating writer, the vegetation of whose mind is as rapid as that of a northern summer, and as rich as the most golden harvests of the south, whose beautiful creations succeed each other like fruits in Armida's enchanted garden, "one scarce is gathered ere another grows?" Shall I recall to you a Rogers, (to me endeared by friendship as well as genius,) who has hung up his own name on the shrine of memory among the most imperishable tablets there. A Southey, not the laureate, but the author of 'Don Roderick,' one of the noblest and most eloquent poems in any language. A Campbell, the polished and spirited Campbell, whose song of 'Innisfail' is the very tears of our own Irish muse, crystallized by the touch of genius, and made eternal. A Wordsworth, a poet, even in his puerilities, whose capacious mind, like the great pool of Norway, draws into its vortex not only the mighty things of the deep, but its minute weeds and refuse. A Crabbe, who has shown what the more than galvanic power of talent can effect, by giving not only motion, but life and soul to subjects that seemed incapable of it. I could enumerate, gentlemen, still more, and from thence would pass with delight to dwell upon the living poets of our own land. The dramatic powers of a Maturin and a Shiel, the former consecrated by the applause of a Scott and a Byron, and the latter by the tears of some of the brightest eyes in the empire. The rich imagination of a Philips, who has courted more than one Muse. The versatile genius of a Morgan, who was the first that mated our sweet Irish strains with poetry worthy of their pathos and their force. But I feel I have already trespassed too long upon your patience and your time.