"So gently back to its first innocence, "That I would sooner stop th' unchained dove "When swift returning to its home of love, "And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, "Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!" A choir of dancing girls succeedThese in vain try the power of their blandishments. Azim remains invincible. But to escape from scenes, on which he cannot look with indifference, he retreats to the casement, through which the moon sheds her mild rays, and in gazing. on the sleeping landscape, falls into a train of sombre contemplations. The image of Zelica, and the painful remembrance of past joys, take possession of his soul. In this pensive mood he turns, -and sees a female form, close veil'd, A strange emotion stirs within him—more But, ah, so pale, so chang'd, none but a lover Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly 66 "Hath brought thee here, oh! 'twas, a blessed one! "There my sweet lids-they move-that kiss "Like the first shoot of life through every vein, SEPTE "I should have singled out thee, only thee, 66 It was, indeed, the touch of those lov'd lips That tone-those looks so chang'd-the with ering blight, That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light- No, no-he sees it all, plain as the brand sever, 'Tis done-to heav'n and him she's lost for ever. "Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he toss'd His desperate hand tow'rds heav'n—“ though I am lost, "Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me "No, no-'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all! "I know it hath—yet, yet believe at least, "They told me thou wert dead-why, Azim, why "With what a deep devotedness of wo "And memory, like a drop that night and day, My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come, "And, all the long, long night of hope and fear, "Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear; "Oh God! thou would'st not wonder that, at last, "When every hope was all at once o'ercast, "When I heard frightful voices round me say “ Azim is dead! this wretched brain gave way, "Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I. "Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear- art, "As would have ruin'd e'en a holier heart- "I should for ever live in thy dear sight, “And drink from those pure eyes eternal light! "Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be, "To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! "Thou weep'st for me--do, weep-oh! that I durst, "Kiss off that tear! but no-these lips are curst, "I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, 44 Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! “Enough, that Guilt reigns here--that hearts, once good, "Now tainted, chill'd and broken, are his food. "As thou art here--here, in this writhing heart, "By the remembrance of our once pure love, "The grave of our lost souls-which guilt in thee "With thee! oh bliss, eyes, "Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies, "And plead for me with Heav'n till I can dare Scarce had she said These breathless words, when a voice, deep and As that of Monker, waking up the Dead, At this dreadful voice, and still more dreadful recollection, Zelica is chilled Azim to provide for his safety, whilst she in a moment to the heart. She implores resigns herself to her uncontrollable destiny and bursting from his embrace, darts into the recesses of the Haram. The The third Canto opens with the note of warike preparation. The Khalif approaches with an army, to repress the impious assumptions of Mokanna. Prophet is not slow in preparing to susstant that fortune is inclining towards the tain them. A battle ensues, and at the insideof the impostor, Azim dashes into the field and turns the scale against him. Mokanta flies to the fortress of Neksheb, and of al his Haram, takes with him only the faded Zelica, but— Not for love-the deepest Damn'd must be Here he awaits the attack of the conqueror, and continues to practise his sorceries in making mock moons rise out of a well. By this means, he keeps alive the faith and hopes of his followers, notwithstanding they are besieged by innumerable foes, and are reduced to the last extremity. But finding, at length, that he must succumb to fate, he determines to make a memorable exit. He, accordingly, reproaches his comrades for their little faith, and invites them to a banquet, at which he promises to reveal to them the of this banquet, Zelica is summoned to ineffable glories of his brow! At the close appear by a menial, who turns black in the face and falls dead as he is delivering his message. She enters; Holy Alla, what a sight She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread, All gold and gems, but-what had been the draught? Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, With their swoll'n heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to heav'n with glassy glare, And clench'd the slackening hand at him ir vain. Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, Of the bless'd sun, e'er blasted human sigit 64 Star; ? "Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are, Is it enough or must 1, while a thrill "Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still? "Swear that the burning death ye feel within, "Is but the trance, with which heav'n's joys bc gin; "That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac'd "E'en monstrous man, is—after God's owa taste, "And that--but see! ere I have half-way said My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls " are fled. "Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, "And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss! "For me I too must die-but not like these "Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze; "To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, "With all death's grimness added to its own, "And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes "Of slaves, exclaiming "There his Godship lies!" "No cursed race-since first my soul drew breath, "They've been my dupes, and shall be, e'en in death. "Thou see'st yon cistern in the shade-'tis fill'd "With burning drugs, for this last hour distill'd; "There will plunge me, in that liquid flame"Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame !— "There perish, all-ere pulse of thine shall fail"Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. "So shall my votaries, whereso'er they rave, "Proclaim that Heav'n took back the Saint it gave; "That I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile, "To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile! "So shall they build me altars in their zeal, "Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel; "Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, "Written in blood-and Bigotry may swell "The sail he spreads for heav' with blasts from hell! "So shall my banner, through long ages, be "The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy; "Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokunna's name,' "And, though I die, my Spirit, still the same, "Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, "And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life! "But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall "Why, let it shake-thus I can brave them all. "No trace of me shall greet them when they come, "And I can trust thy faith, for-thou'lt be dumb. "Now, mark how readily a wretch like me, "In one bold plunge, commences Deity!" He sprung and sunk, as the last words were saidQuick clos'd the burning waters o'er his head, And Zelica was left-within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing; The beleaguerers now effect a breach in the wall, and as they are pausing, apprehensive of some stratagem from the solitude and silence that reign within, Zelica appears wrapt in the Silver Veil. At the sight of this hateful badge, Azim springs forward, and Zelica throws herself upon his spear, happy in this disguise, to have obtained death at his hand. Time fleeted-years on years had pass'd away, And few of those who, on that mournful day, Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, Were living still-when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift Amou's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that long grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down-and, though the Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, 6 We have now despatched the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.' But before we take up the three remaining poems in this volume, we will offer a few remarks on the one just concluded. In the very cursory notice of Lalla Rookh in our last number, we observed of the poems which it contains, that they present 'great and glaring faults, and fewer, but not less obvious beauties.' The extracts which we have already made afford a fair proportion of both. All the defects of the story are justly chargeable upon Mr. Moore, since he had no restriction in his range, through the records of fact, or the fields of fancy. It was his own folly that prompted him to rake up the foul deeds of a detestable monster, from the obscurity to which they had been deservedly consigned. Nor can we discover for what object he has dragged this 'misbegotten knave' into the light of day. He does not appear to intend the inculcation of any moral lesson, and surely, he cannot believe that a picture, of such diabolical depravity and bug-bear deformity, will awaken in the beholder any pleasurable emotion. We have never heard before of such an instance of gratuitous malignity, as is imputed to Al Mokanna. Born in an humble station of life, personal beauty was in no degree essential to enable him fully to participate in all its ejoyments. The accidents of war, if they had diminished his original comeliness, had marked him with honourable scars, which a true soldier would never exchange for the limbs or features of an Apollo. He had nothing with which to reproach fortune. He lived in her smiles to the very close of his career. In the lineage and circumstances of Richard the Third, we find equally a motive for his ambition and his envy. The turbulence of the times had accustomed men to regard the crown as a prize, which it was lawful to covet, and for which it might become politic to contend. The chivalrous spirit of the age rendered personal accomplishments, and the address and prowess, that qualified for the ball and the tournament, not merely feathers in the cap of youth,' but indispensable requisites to popularity and power. Richard could not enter these lists. When we hear him VOL. I. NO. v. cur in the bitterness of his spirit, cursing the 6 ་ It was injuries, which none but a feeling heart would have treasured up, that curdled the milk of human kindness,' in The little the breast of Bethlem Gabor. misanthropical Dwarf, in the Tales of my Landlord,' did not imbibe his implacable hatred of mankind from the survey of his own dimensions. His moroseness and distrust were but the retraction of the bruised fibres of a sympathy, that would have encircled his species with its tendrils. But in the odious impostor of Khorassan, we read only the naked lineaments of a fiend. It is in vain to say that Mr. Moore is sufficiently fortified by history. If this were the case, it would not extenuate the radical absurdity of rendering such a demon, if not the hero, at least the most prominent character in his piece. No man, in his senses, would think of making the enormities of Nero, Caligula, or Heliogabalus, the subject of an epopee. Besides, Mr. Moore was under no obligation to found his plot on any historical incident. It is, to be sure, required that an epic should relate to known characters and events, but these metrical romances do not come under that honourable denomination. They are a very humble kind of compositions-in our estimation, much below the novel both in dignity and utility, and equally licensed to indulge in fiction. Novels, if not a new class of works of fancy, are a wonderful improvement upon the ancient romances. These last were, though not absolutely the invention, the chief ornament of the dark ages, and appeared first in verse. The metrical romances preceded even the legends of Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table, and of Charlemagne and his Paladins. The Scandinavian nations had their scalds, the British their bards, and the French their troubadours and trouveurs. Their legerdary rhymes were afterwards reduced to prose, and formed the famous romans, which Cervantes so liberally consigned to the flames. It were a pleasant speculation to imagine the fate of most of the productions of our cotemporary poets, the operation of powerful external causes, were a modern library submitted to the tribunal that held an inquisition on that, of Don Quixotte. It appears to us that in reviving the exploded taste of the middle ages we are relapsing into barbarism. Those prodigies which were adapted to rouse the curiosity and excite the astonishment of the ignorant of that period, are ill suited to please refined and discriminating readers. Paintings may delight children merely by the vividness of their colours; connoisseurs mark the design, and observe the distribution and the shading. English poetry has been heretofore celebrated for its philosophical character. It has abounded more in profound moral reflections than in surprising incident,-more in natural touches than in factitious sentiment. It has had generally a cast of thoughtfulness, and frequently of melancholy. Madame de Stael considers Homer and Ossian as the models of two different styles of poetry. The Eastern is addressed to the imagination, the Northern comes home to the understanding and the heart. She avows her preference for the latter. How ill do the quotidian productions of our presses warrant this commendation. They have indeed their full proportion of sadness, but we shall in vain search for moral truth or purpose. Extravagance of plot, language, and passion, is, at this moment, the only passport to circulation. Milton is no longer read, it may be because he has adorned Lucifer with too many good qualities for a fashionable hero. It is a long time since some wiseacre discovered that Pope was no poet, and one Mr. Leigh Hunt has lately found out that he knew nothing of versification. Young, Cowper, Thomson, Gray, Collins, &c. are laid on the shelf; and the rising generation are not likely to know that we have any thing better in our literature than the verses of Scott, Byron, Hunt, Coleridge and Moore. Even the best of our living bards have fallen into neglect. Campbell, Southey, (we mean the author of Roderick,) and Rogers are thrown into the shade. We are sorry that the last of these gentlemen should lend his name so freely to literary works which his good sense must condemn. It were better to leave Lord Byron and his friends to the benefits of their system of mutual dedication. Still we do not mean to deny to some of these writers an extraordinary degree of merit, in their way. Scott first brought into view a train of corroded passions, compounded of posite moral elements, and stimulated by op the developement of which produces a feeling of awe approaching to sublimity. Byron has given a wider scope to these mysterious metaphysics, and has drawn out delineations of the human heart that present it in an aspect of the highest interest, though of the most painful contemplation. From their very nature, however, it is as impossible as it is undesirable, long to keep up the tone of these unnatural energies. The gradual corruption of taste is equally seen in the degradation of the drama. Shakespeare, Otway, Congreve, Rowe, Farquhar, Goldsmith, Sheridan, and Cumberland, have been driven off the boards by the Titanian progeny of the melo-drame. The stage has been converted into a circus, or an arena. Wit, sentiment, and song, have been supplanted by necromancy, fustian, and fanfaronnade. Mr. Moore has, indeed, only suffered himself to be borne along by the downward current. He has been persuaded to barter his reversionary reputation for three thousand guineas, and a balance of ephemeral notoriety. It was a pitiful compromise. Those who know how to value the meed of immortal fame,' will never choose, Gold for the object of a generous muse.' If he has been dazzled by the splendid errors of a great but erratic genius, it is an excusable weakness, though not a less fatal mistake. It is a debasement of mind to become the implicit disciple of any school; and all who are emulous of lasting renown will avoid Byronism in poetry, as they would Pyrrhonism in ethics. But as Mr. Moore is a neophyte, we hope he may yet be rcclaimed. It is no more than just, however, as we have charged on Mr. Moore all the faults of the story which he has copied, to give him full credit for the characters and passages which he has invented or embellished. Azim is of his own creation; and though the concubine of history suggested his Zelica, he has contrived to attach a powerful interest to their unhappy fate. The description of their youthful loves, the cruel anxiety his absence caused to Zelica, the blasting influence of the rumour of his death upon her peace and reason, his fond hopes and unsuspecting faith, and the exquisite misery of their interview in the palace of the Prophet,— all these circumstances of cumulative |