she, who leans Well may ye look to yon dim tower, - her more than life, Her soul's first idol and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. " 'Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims, And IRAN's hopes and hers are o'er! Deep, deep,-where never care or pain In the perusal of this unusually long quotation, we feel assured that our readers will find such unusual pleasure that they will not complain of its length. Here, however, we must close our extracts, and steadily refrain from the many tempting common-places which might be added to our list of similar passages in the first part of this article. Our office now demands its old unwelcome tribute of minuter criticism; when, having discharged that necessary duty, we shall make some more general remarks on the character of this attractive volume," and bid farewell to gentle Lalla Rookh.” We suppose that the following trait, in the character of an unmerciful Arab, is not overcharged; yet it forcibly reminds us of the Hibernian story of a knife being stuck up to "Lamprey" (the maker's name at the end of the blade) in the "bread-basket" (the stomach) of an unfortunate fellow-countryman, by an enraged son of Erin. < One • One who can coolly point the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim's heart.' The grammatical ellipsis of the subjoined passage, be it ever so common, is still most unpleasing to the ear: But know-'twas he I sought that night.' We may observe, cursorily, that a large portion of the tale of the Fire-Worshippers' seems to our fancy to have fallen into the manner of Lord Byron; more particularly as that manner has been exhibited in " the Bride of Abydos." Perhaps, some faint coincidence of scenery and situation may have contributed to excite this idea: but we must leave the curious and critical reader to judge of the fact. In Lord Byron's drama of Manfred, which we have just perused *, which was written in a foreign country, and had not (we believe) reached England when Mr. Moore's work was in the press, we observe a striking similarity of idea in a passage relating to the record in Genesis, concerning the sons of God and the daughters of men. Indeed, this is not the only instance, by many, in which we have perceived the same vein of thought, and even an apparently studied imitation of style, in the brother-poets of the day. Mr. Moore, in this work, has, we imagine, frequently imitated Lord Byron; and Lord Byron, we are sure, of late has constantly sunken into the manner (if it can be called a manner!) of Mr. Wordsworth. The nerve and spirit of this poem are rarely stretched, or inflated, beyond the true bounds of the sublime: but perhaps there may be examples in which the dangerously approximating borders of bombast are somewhat invaded. For instance, a battle in a storm at sea; as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heav'n or man.' Hyberbole is indeed the sin which most easily besets a writer who is eager in his search for novelty;-whose whole range of thought embraces a variety of unhackneyed objects; and yet we have great pleasure in observing that, both in language and imagery, Mr. Moore has a correctness of taste which effectually saves him from the prominent faults of several of his popular rivals. He seldom outsteps the proper and natural degree of energy that is required by the march * See the next ensuing Article. of of his subject; and, in Lalla Rookh, it is very possible to have the unmixed delight of reading page after page without a single check from expressions either loaded with too much ornament, or deficient in due elegance. Among the few examples of the contrary defects, we may perhaps quote the extravagant declaration of Hinda, that she would kneel at the shrine of any God, for the sake of Hafed;' which, although it may not mean much more than saying Paradise would be joyless without him,' as she does say on another occasion, is yet very different in style and manner, and revolts instead of pleasing even those who are best disposed and best qualified to sympathize with the sufferings of the noble patriot, and the gentle heroine, of this interesting story. We have given our opinion, in the former part of this article, concerning the poem which stands last in the collection, or The Light of the Haram. It is, in truth, very inferior to all the rest; the song of an American humming-bird, which rather dazzles the eye than delights the ear. Though we might quote a variety of passages, exemplifying both the splendour and the frivolity which characterize it, we shall only observe, in conclusion of our verbal strictures, that such a line as the following would throw ridicule on any scene: From the cool shining walks where the young people meet** and that the exclamation Good Heaven is another of the familiarities by which Mr. Moore has debased his liberal and refined style of composition. Much, however, as we could wish that no line of this highly wrought volume could be found defective in accuracy or elegance, still more disposed are we to feel a depressing regret that, with the exception of Paradise and the Peri,' no great moral effect is either attained or attempted throughout the work. "Quorsum hæc tam dulcia tendunt ?" To what purpose all this sweetness and delicacy of thought and language, all this labour and profusion of Oriental learning? What head is set right in one erroneous notion, what heart is softened in one obdurate feeling, by this luxurious quarto? Alas! with the exception which we have made, not one. Oh! that the author "Would stoop to truth, and moralize his song;" would disdain the dull dislike of the times for all dignified and instructive writing; would chain their unwilling attention to a thoughtful and ennobling strain; and (as we before intimated) would redeem our country from the disgrace of yet wanting a legitimate epic poem ! ART. ART. VI. Manfred, a Dramatic Poem. By Lord Byron. 8vo. pp. 80. 5s. 6d. stitched. Murray. 1817. ΤΗ HOUGH We have always been forward in testifying our commendation of the high poetic talents of Lord Byron, we are equally sincere in now expressing a wish that he would for a time withdraw from public view, and curb, if not his facility of composition, at least his inclination to print. We offer this recommendation from a conviction that the pictures, which the bent of his genius prompts him to paint with so much strength and effect, are such that, from their very nature, they will pall on the appetite which they have pleased, and at last from mere repetition excite something like disgust. A few years may alter the tenor of the noble poet's train of thinking, and produce some new effusion, which, novel in its design and executed with all his native energy, may delight and surprise his countrymen: but this effect will be completely prevented by the unceasing recurrence of his publications, such as they have ever been: the interest hitherto excited by his poems will subside; and fashion, or public taste, will transfer its admiration to some new bard, though perhaps possessed of inferior merit. We make these remarks, in connection with those which incidentally occurred in a previous page, (291.) the more willingly on the present occasion, because they are founded on the matter and manner of the noble author's productions, not on the decline of his poetic conception or composition: for in fact we consider the drama of Manfred as one of his Lordship's most successful efforts in point of vigour of imagination and power of expression; as more free than his writings usually are from occasional faults of language; and as exhibiting a hero not absolutely "monstrum nulla virtute redemptum à vitiis." It is to the spirit and character of his works, then, that we object; and much do we regret that he seems to be so little influenced by the remark of Cicero, which we recommended to his atten tion on the appearance of his "Juvenile Poems," on discarding the imitation of those who seemed to delight in lamentations of their existence. Why does he not more nobly enable himself to add the best reason for non-conformity to such practice, by deservedly appropriating the proud words of the Roman orator; "quoniam ita vixi, ut me non frustrà natum existimem ?” Notwithstanding the general praise which we have already assigned to this drama, and in spite of its power to excite interest, it has a family-liability to the objections which we have just offered; and it incurs the danger of fatiguing the attention by keeping it too long fixed on one character, for the hero hero of this is identically the hero of all Lord Byron's other poems. His Manfred is little more than his Childe Harold, his Lara, his universal man; as discontented, as mysterious, as terrific a compound of crime and of sentiment, with the additional power of calling up "spirits from the vasty deep" and various other places, which condescend to "come when he does call them." The scene of this extraordinary production is amongst the higher Alps, partly in the castle of Manfred, and partly in the mountains.' We are introduced first to Manfred in a Gothic gallery at midnight, and the solemnity of the place and hour is heightened by the still more sombre picture of his thoughts. We shall quote some of the opening soliloquy, in order to make our readers acquainted with the hero. • The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then Have been to me as rain unto the sands, Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, And feel the curse to have no natural fear, Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, Now to my task.' This task is to call up the spirits of the unbounded universe,' whose appearance, it seems, he has the power to compel. After three invocations, a star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; and seven spirits sing respectively an appropriate strain, and then join in the following chorus: • Earth, |