wretchedness fasten upon the fancy and weigh upon the heart. But when we suffer ourselves to dwell on thoughts that will intrude, we shudder with disgust. When we are compelled to advert to the stupration of so much beauty and tenderness and heavenly-mindedness by a vile and lazar-like monster, we are filled with indescribable abhorrence. This painful sentiment is heightened when the poet forces upon us the fact of her base concupiscence; and this indignation is still augmented when she is made, again and again, with most unfeminine indelicacy, the herald of her own shame. Mr. Moore's mind must have become so debauched that all remembrance of modesty is obliterated from it, if he ever had any, -or he could not be guilty of the solecism of making a female who had ever reverenced the majesty of virtue, or the shadow of decency, pronounce herselfA loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame! nay, openly avow to her lover, in extenuation of her perfidy to him, and her concubinage with the Prophet, that 'e'en the quenchless love' within her, was

Turn'd to foul fires to light (her) into sin. Mr. Moore has introduced a large number of new and very fine similes. It would be singular if he had not, when it is evident that his principal object in writing this poem was to find a vent for the similitudes he had framed from hints gleaned from a great variety of authors on oriental manners and antiquities, and carefully hoarded in his common-place book. We could have wished, indeed, that he had kept the process of his labours a little more out of sight. We have been so accustomed to regard the poem as the main fabric, and the figures and illustrations as incidental ornaments, that we cannot reconcile ourselves to the parade of an accumulation of gaudy decorations before the plan of the building is laid, or the material for its construction provided. It is too much like buying up prints and then erecting galleries in which to exhibit them. It was not only unnecessary to have let us into the secret of his composition, but his perpetual reference to authorities on the most trifling occasions is quite teazing. Explanations to comparisons are like designations to paintings; they must be very unlike or obscure to require such indices.

We did not wish to interrupt the narration with comments; and we must content ourselves, now, with indicating a few of the minor particulars in which this poem is deserving praise or reprobation.

From the general encomium we have passed upon Mr. Moore's similes, we must except the resemblance of the memory of past loves to a Church-yard light,' as presenting an idea disagreeable in itself and of course incapable of recommending, by its association, a delicate sentiment. The beautiful allusion to the bulbul' is not original. Zelica's assimilation of the effect that would be wrought on her by living in the light of Azim's eyes, to that produced upon

-The stain'd web that whitens in the sun,

is equally ingenious and charming. We have not room to point out many others which cannot fail to catch the attention of the reader.

character of Mokanna, we shall dismiss After what we have already said of the his scurrility as quick as possible. Most of his eloquence, and that of the poet in describing him, consists in the liberal use of such sonorous and recondite terms,

as

curse,''curst,' 'damn,' 'damning,' damned,'' 'hell,' 'hell-fire,' &c. &c. &c.

In regard to the versification, Mr. Moore appears to have taken Leigh Hunt for his model; and has produced a lame imitation of a bad exemplar. The very first couplet in the poem is amazingly bald and prosaic.

In that delightful province of the sun,

The first of Persian lands he shines upon,-is a very feeble beginning, and promises, indeed, 'no middle flight.' Detaching prepositions from the nouns they govern is awkward enough in prose, but to per petrate this divulsion for the sake of obtaining a rhyme to complete a couplet, on which a pause, in all good poetry, must necessarily fall, is absolutely barbarous. Mr. Moore seems to have studied opportunities to commit this and similar violations of style. In regard to metre he is equally faulty; and like his prototype Leigh Hunt affects to sneer at critics who mind a few syllables more or less in a line. What sort of rhythm is there in such lines as these?

Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, &c.
Ye too believers of incredible creeds, &c.
He turns away coldly, as if some gloom, &c.
I'm Mokanna's bride, his, Azim, his,—&c.
The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; &c.

We might pick out any quantity of such instances. But it is not so much the redundancy or deficiency of Mr. Moore's measure of which we complain as the absolute want of movement. By counting one's fingers it is evident that in the third of the above lines, there is the

requisite number of syllables-but surely, not the least imaginable poetry. It is the bane of French verse that the language does not admit of inversion. Ours will be equally enervated when Leigh Hunt and his confederates shall have brought it down to the level of every-day conversation. The only recompense that rhyme offers for the trammels by which it confines an author is the exactness of its harmony and the skill of the structure of the stanza. Fiction may be as well clothed in prose as in rhyme, figurative language is not appropriated to either, and imagination may indulge her discursive flights as well in the one as in the other. The charm of poetry consists in its melody, the choice of its epithets, and the nice propriety of its construction. In every other respect prose has the superiority. The prose writer has no pains in adjusting the balance of his words, or the length of his periods. His attention is not arrested by the signs of his ideas,— it is fixed on the ideas themselves. He

finds no difficulty in approaching any subject he may have occasion to treat, nor has he any need of periphrasis. It is principally to this freedom of thought and fancy that we attribute the pre-eminence of the writers of the prose romances of the present day over its minstrels. Waverley, Guy Mannering, the Antiquary, and the Tales of my Landlord, are altogether superior productions to the popu lar ballads; and Miss Edgeworth's and Miss Burney's novels are much more instructive and entertaining. We speak only of cotemporary literature, or we might adduce a host of examples in support of our position. We are mistaken if even Mr. Southey's chance of future fame do not rest mainly on his prose writings; though his Roderick is the only legitimate epic, and, on the whole, the best poem of

the age.

We have another objection to metrical romances. Such is the facility with which even the best of them may be produced, that, if they are to be recognized as classical poetry, the multiplication of them will soon render it impossible for those who pursue any other studies to keep up an acquaintance with classical authors. We shall have no standards. Allusions will be lost. In fact, even at this moment, an allusion to Milton, Dryden, or Pope, is not understood, by the generality of belles-lettres scholars. We shall therefore strenuously oppose the admission of mere ballad-makers into the rank of poets. We are aware that Mr. Moore has put an argument of this nature into

the mouth of Fadladeen. He should have felt its force.

Having devoted so much room to 'The Veiled Prophet,' we must give a summary account of the succeeding poems.

'Paradise and the Peri' is a very pleasing little allegory, and conveys an excellent moral. An abridgment of the story must be insipid, as it derives its greatest charm from the manner in which it is related. The Peris are the fairies of the east. The poet represents one of these imaginary beings as sighing at the gate of paradise for admission to those celestial regions which her 'recreant race' had forfeited. The angel who guards the portal, compassionating her distress, informs her that one hope still remains to her of regaining those glorious seats, since

In

"Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The Peri yet may be forgiven,
Who brings to this eternal gate,

The gift that is most dear to Heaven! pursuit of this acceptable offering the Peri wings her way to earth. As she approaches she hears the din of battle, and hovers over the field of strife. She sees a gallant warrior, the sole survivor of his country's hopes,

Alone, beside his native riverThe red blade broken in his band, And the last arrow in his quiver. The conqueror offers to spare his life the indignant patriot rejects the worthless boon, and hurls his last dart at the invader.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well-
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell!
Yet mark'd the Fori where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray

Of imorning light, she caught the last-Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled!

But this, though a grateful libation to Heaven, does not procure the suitor admission to the realms of bliss. The Peri renews her pursuit. She next tenders the last sigh of a fond and faithful maid who had expired on the corse of her lover, a victim to that pestilence of which she had voluntarily imbibed the infection from his lips, when there was none else that dared to smooth the pillow of death. The Peri boldly claims her reward. The Angel essays to unclose the everlasting gates. His efforts are unavailing. It is with reluctance he announces to the Peri, that

holier far

Than e'en this sigh the boon must be, That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee.

comrades meet them in a defile, and maintain themselves till the pass is bridged by the dead. Hafed, with a single surviving companion, regains the fortress. That companion expires as they reach it. Hafed lays his corse upon the pyre, applies the torch and plunges into the flame.

Hinda, with heart-rending anxiety, had listened on the waters to the clash of the distant combat,-she had noted the silence that succeeded it,--but when the light of the kindled pile flashed through the gloom, and betrayed for a moment her Hafed's form, to reveal his immolation.

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave

Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd that dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave,-
Deep, deep,-where never care nor pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!

As this poem is in the eight syllable metre, instances of false quantity, though abundant, are not so offensive as in the heroic measure. To what we have already said of its leading features, we may add, that it has a laudable object, its tendency being to inspire an exalted devotion to liberty and patriotism. There is truth as well as eloquence in the following apostrophe.

Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word,

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd.
How many a spirit, born to bless,

Has sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wefted to eternal fame!
As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;-
But, they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthron'd in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!
If the poet's indignation against treache-
ry have breathed itself out in too harsh
an anathema against traitors, we can easi-
ly pardon his warmth.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their hour of might!
May Life's unblessed cup for him

Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,-
With hopes, that but allure to fly,

With joys, that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame
On the parch'd desert thirsting die,-
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!

And, when from earth his spirit flies,

Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven, and feeling hell! The description of Hinda is in a more pleasing strain.

Beautiful are the maids that glide,

On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales,
And bright the glancing looks they hide
Behind their litters' roseate veils;-
And brides, as delicate and fair
As the white jasmine flowers they wear,
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime,

Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,
Before their mirrors count the time,
And grow still lovelier every hour.
But never yet hath bride or maid
In Araby's gay Harams smil'd
Whose boasted brightness would not fade
Before Al Hassan's blooming child.

Light as the angel shapes that bless
An infant's dream, yet not the less
Rich in all woman's loveliness;---
With eyes so pure, that from their ray
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away,
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze!—
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this!
A soul, too, more than half divine,
Where, through some shades of earthly
feeling,

Religion's soften'd glories shine,

Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere!

We must confess we cannot think Mr. Moore's religious notions exactly orthodox; neither do we approve of including a salacious temperament in the enumeration of female charms. Yet there is scarcely a case in the whole volume where he has attempted to delineate a beautiful woman in which he has not

distinctly presented this idea. We find

a further illustration of Mr. Moore's

creed, in the following passage.

Her hands were clasp'd-her eyes upturn'd,
Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;
And, though her lip, fond raver! burn'd
With words of passion, bold, profane,
Yet was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,
Which show'd-though wandering earthward

now,

Her spirit's home was in the skies.
Yes--for a spirit, pure as hers,
Is always pure, ev'n while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,

Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still!
Again,

"Go where we will, this hand in thine,
Those eyes before me smiling thus,
Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
The world's a world of love for us!

On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
Where 'tis no crime to love too well ;--
Where thus to worship tenderly
An erring child of light like thee
Will not be sin-or, if it be,

Where we may weep our faults away,
Together kneeling, night and day,
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
And I--at any God's, for thine!".

There is a tone of sadness in Hinda's despondent plaint to Hafed, where he is first introduced to us, that penetrates us with a belief of its reality.

Playful she turn'd, that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone:
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,

"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams have boded all too right"We part-forever part-to-night! "I knew, I knew it could not last""Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past! "Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,

"I've seen my fondest hopes decay; "I never lov'd a tree or flower,

"But 'twas the first to fade away. "I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,

"To glad me with its soft black eye, "But when it came to know me well,

"And love me, it was sure to die! "Now too-the joy most like divine "Of all I ever dreamt or knew, "To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,

"Oh misery! must I lose that too? Such are the cherished griefs of a morbid sensibility.

A remarkable instance of the bathos occurs in the description of Hafed's perilous enterprise in climbing to Hinda's chamber. Whilst he is clinging to the projections of the rocks by which alone he sustains himself, Hinda throws down her long tresses to aid his ascent. This romantic incident is thus related.

When, as she saw him rashly spring, And mid-way up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!" "The Light of the Haram,' which is the last of these poems, is a sprightly lay. The circumstance on which it turns is the quarrel and reconciliation of the Emperor Jehanguire and his favourite, Nourmahal. We shall confine ourselves to a single extract; and we select the description of Nourmahal, not only as being free from the blemish we have censured, but as portraying a style of beauty equally rare and fascinating.

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light,

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,

Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of

bliss;

But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the cyes;

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of Heav'n in his dreams!

climes

When pensive, it scem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face:
And when angry-for ev'n in the tranquillest
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes-
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when
shaken.

If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenly dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy
revealings,

From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings!

Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing

From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;

Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her
soul;

And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,

In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal!

The process and issue of lovers' quarrels are so well understood, that we will not detain our readers by a recital of the particulars of the momentary estrangement and lasting reunion of Selim and his Sultana.

We must now dismiss Lalla Rookh. As a whole it is difficult to pronounce upon it. 'On peut être un très bon auteur avec quelques fautes,' says Voltaire, 'mais non pas avec beaucoup de fautes.' A composition can hardly be called good, in which faults predominate. Mr. Moore excels in writing songs. In aiming at distinction of another kind, we hope he L'esprit qu'on veut avoir gate celui may not prove the truth of the maxim, qu'on a.'

E.