LINES TO THOMAS MOORE. 569 



of the necessity of human improvement through principles of edu- 

 cation. He is a good Tory but a bad Reformer. 



Education is an unlimited question. In addition to all endowed 

 and unendowed schools, it applies to army, navy, church, prisons, 

 workhouses, and families. That which has hitherto been carried on 

 is only a mockery of what may be accomplished. We cannot pro- 

 perly judge of the constitution of man by what man has hitherto 

 been found. He is evidently a creature admitting of a very high 

 degree of cultivation ; and it is not only ignorance but madness that 

 withholds any thing of the kind from any human being. There is 

 no society on earth yet worthy of being called, or that can be truly 

 called, civilized. We grant exceptions as to individuals and families. 

 Civilization in society can only apply to that state wherein every 

 thing possible is done for mental culture. It cannot be associated 

 with any kind of superstition. Civilization must be the era of 

 science. It is a work of love in which all may assist. It is a work 

 of charity in which each has a duly to perform. It is a work of hope 

 and faith in the increasing happiness of the human race. It is a 

 work of self-love, for every man is degraded in a ratio with every 

 other man's degration. It is the truly catholic principle of Christian- 

 ity, that is to embrace all nations in one brotherhood, to " convert the 

 sword into a ploughshare and the spear into a pruning hook ; when 

 nations shall learn war no more, and every man sit down under his 

 own vine and his own fig tree." 



The Preacher. 



LINES TO THE POET THOMAS MOORE, 



BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE MECHANIC'S SATURDAY NIGHT.' 



Hail ! poet of Erin, thy soft flowing numbers 

 May vie with those hymns the light seraphim sigh ; 



Each cold thought of earth 'neath thy sweet music slumbers. 

 And ecstacy lifts all the senses on high. 



When thou warblest of love, O ! how charming thy measures. 

 And thrilling and sweet as the kisses you sing ! 



O'er the spirit deep bliss and Elysian pleasures 

 Thy magic harp spreads as its silver chords ring. 



When in mirth, too, thy music is gallantly sounding. 

 Throughout the rapt frame swiftly dart the proud lay. 



Enchanting, and glowing, and ardently bounding. 

 Like heaven's bright fluid through ether's dark way. 



And in sorrow, O ! then thou triumphantly soarest 



O'er trembling mortality's tearful dim realms ; 

 And, tenderly mournful, the sad strain thou pourest. 



And in the deep passion humanity whelms. 



JIail ! poet of Erin, by fortune still slighted. 



Long, long mayst thou wear the bright wreath thou hast won ; 

 Thy music shall live until all things are blighted, 



'fhe life-breathing seasons, and light of the sun. 



