Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same
  Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? 
  I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

  Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
  And thy Angel I’ll be,’mid the horrors of this,—­
  Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
  And shield thee, and save thee,—­or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy—­a distinction originating with Coleridge—­than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore.  The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake.  Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.  In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly—­more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing—­“I would I were by that dim lake”—­which are the composition of Thomas Moore.  I regret that I am unable to remember them.

One of the noblest—­and, speaking of Fancy—­one of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood.  His “Fair Ines” had always for me an inexpressible charm: 

  O saw ye not fair Ines? 
    She’s gone into the West,
  To dazzle when the sun is down
    And rob the world of rest
  She took our daylight with her,
    The smiles that we love best,
  With morning blushes on her cheek,
    And pearls upon her breast.

  O turn again, fair Ines,
    Before the fall of night,
  For fear the moon should shine alone,
    And stars unrivall’d bright;
  And blessed will the lover be
    That walks beneath their light,
  And breathes the love against thy cheek
    I dare not even write!

  Would I had been, fair Ines,
    That gallant cavalier,
  Who rode so gaily by thy side,
    And whisper’d thee so near! 
  Were there no bonny dames at home,
    Or no true lovers here,
  That he should cross the seas to win
    The dearest of the dear?

  I saw thee, lovely Ines,
    Descend along the shore,
  With bands of noble gentlemen,
    And banners-waved before;
  And gentle youth and maidens gay,
    And snowy plumes they wore;
  It would have been a beauteous dream,
    If it had been no more!

  Alas, alas, fair Ines,
    She went away with song,
  With Music waiting on her steps,
    And shoutings of the throng;
  But some were sad and felt no mirth,
    But only Music’s wrong,
  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
    To her you’ve loved so long.

  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
    That vessel never bore
  So fair a lady on its deck,
    Nor danced so light before,—­
  Alas for pleasure on the sea,
    And sorrow on the shore! 
  The smile that blest one lover’s heart
    Has broken many more!