And again—
Is there for man no hope—but this which dooms
His only lasting trophies to be tombs!
But 'tis not so—earth, heaven, all nature shows
He may become immortal, may unclose
The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise
Redeemed from earth a creature of the skies!
And here—
The pyramid shadows, stretching from the light,
Look like the first colossal steps of night,
Stalking across the valley to invade
The distant hills of prophyry with their shade!
And once more—
Their Silence, thoughtful God, who loves
The neighbourhood of Death, in groves
Of asphodel lies hid, and weaves
His hushing spell among the leaves.
Such lines as these, we must admit, however, are not of frequent occurrence in the poem—the sum of whose great beauty is composed of the several sums of a world of minor excellencies.
Moore has always been renowned for the number and appositeness, as well as novelty, of his similes; and the renown thus acquired is strongly indicial of his deficiency in that nobler merit—the noblest of them all. No poet thus distinguished was ever richly ideal. Pope and Cowper are remarkable instances in point. Similes (so much insisted upon by the critics of the reign of Queen Anne) are never, in our opinion, strictly in good taste, whatever may be said to the contrary, and certainly can never be made to accord with other high qualities, except when naturally arising from the subject in the way of illustration—and, when thus arising, they have seldom the merit of novelty.
