The neigh of cavalry;-the tinkling throngs Of laden camels, and their driver's songs ;--Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze Of streamers from ten thousand canopies:War-music, bursting out from time to time, With gong and tymbolon's tremendous chime ;

Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute,

The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,

That, far off, broken by the eagle note Of the Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float!"

If this be splendid and magnificent, the following is no less wild and terrible.

" "Twas more than midnight now,a fearful pause

Had followed the long shouts, the wild ap plause,

That lately from those Royal Gardens burst, Where the Veiled Demon held his feast accurst,

When Zelica-alas, poor ruin'd heart,
In every horror doom'd to bear its part
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,
Who, while his quivering lip the summons
gave,

Grew black, as though the shadows of

the grave

Compassed him round, and, ere he could repeat

His message through, fell lifeless at her feet!

Shuddering she went-a soul-felt pang of fear,

A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling, and brought Reason back

Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seemed tranquil; even the foe had ceased,

As if aware of that demoniac feast, His fiery bolts; and though the heavens looked red,

'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.

dread

But, hark!-she stops--she listens ful tone! "Tis her Tormentor's laugh-and now a groan,

A long death-groan, comes with it-can this be

The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?
She enters Holy Alla! what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering
light

Of the pale dawn, mixed with the flame of brands

That round lay burning, dropped from life

less hands,

"This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia, nesser cano, which signifies the note of the eagle.”—Note of Bruce's Editor.

She saw the board in splendid mockery spread,

Rich censers breathing,-garlands over head,

The urns, the cups from which they late had quaffed,

All gold and gems, but-what had been the draught?

Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests,

With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts,

Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought, but saw no mercy there; As if they felt, though poison racked them through,

Remorse the deadlier torment of the two! While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train

Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side,

Here mute and helpless gasped ;-but as they died,

Looked horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain,

And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, The stony look of horror and despair, Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their soul's tormentor to the last ;Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil now raised,

Show'd them, as in death's agony they gazed,

Not the long promised light, the brow, whose beaming

Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,

But features horribler than Hell e'er traced On its own brood-no Demon of the Waste, No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light

Of the blessed sun, ere blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce, as those Th' Impostor now in grinning mockery shows.

There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light,

your Star

Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are, Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?

Swear that the burning death you feel within Is but a trance, with which heaven's joys

begin;

That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac'd Even monstrous man, is—after God's own

taste;

one too.

But-how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?

Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, Young bride-yet stay-one precious drop remains,

Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ! Here, drink and should thy lover's conquering arms

Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss.'"

From this very general outline of the story, and from these extracts, our readers will perceive that this singular Poem abounds in striking, though somewhat extravagant, situations, incidents, and characters. There is something very fine in the Vision of the Silver Veil floating ever in the van of battle, and in the unquaking and invincible faith of the Believers in the mysterious Being whose glories it is supposed to shroud. The wildness and madness of religious fanaticism entempests and tumultuates the whole Poem; and perhaps that fanaticism strikes us with more mournful and melancholy awe, from the wickedness of him who inspires it, and who rejoicingly awakens both the good and bad passions of man, to delude, to mock, and destroy him.

The character of Mokanna is, we think, originally and vigorously conceived, though perhaps its formation is attributed too exclusively to the gnawing sense of his hideous deformity of countenance. But this is an Eastern tale; and in all the fictions of the East, whether they regard characters or events, nature is described only in her extravagancies. Nor does this proceed solely from the wayward imagination of Eastern genius; for the history of those mighty kingdoms exhibits the wonderful career of many a wild and fantastic spirit, many a dream-like change, many a mysterious revolution.

Thrones have been overturned, and altars demolished, by men starting suddenly up in all the power of savage its Prophets and Impostors, its Conenthusiasm; and every realm has had querors and Kings. The display, indeed, of successful imposture in politics or religion has not been confined to the kingdoms of the East; but there it has assumed the wildest and most extravagant form-has sprung from, and been supported by, the mentably overthrown, ruined, and destrongest passions-and has most lagraded, the character of man.

Different, indeed, as the situations in which Mokanna is placed are to those of another fictitious personage, there is, notwithstanding, a striking similarity in their characters, and in the causes to which the formation of that character is attributed-we mean the Black Dwarf. He comes deformed into the world; the injury, scorn, misfortunes, and miseries, which that deformity brings upon him, distort his feelings and his reason-inspire him with a malignant hatred of his kind, and a sullen disbelief in the goodness of Providence. So far he bears a general resemblance to Mokanna. But the Black Dwarf is the inhabitant of a lonely cottage on a lonely moor; his life is past in a hideous solitude; the few persons who come in contact with him are low or ordinary mortals; his hatred of his kind is sullenly passive, or active only in bursts of passion, of which man, rather than men, is the uninjured object; while the darkness of his soul is occasionally enlightened by transient gleams of pity, tenderness, penitence, and remorse. But Mokanna starts up from the unknown region of his birth, at once a Prophet and a Conqueror ; he is for ever surrounded with power and majesty; and the "Silver Veil" may be supposed to be the shrine of incarnate Deity. His hatred of man, and horror of himself, urge him to destroy. He is the Evil Spirit; nor is he satisfied with bloodshed, though it drench a whole land, unless he can also ruin the soul, and create wickedness out of misery. Which of these characters is the most impressive, we shall not decide. They are both natural; that is to say, we can conceive them to exist in nature. Perhaps greater power of genius was required to dignify and impart a character of sublimity to the

wretched and miserable Dwarf, in the stone hut of his own building, than to Mokanna, beneath his Silver Veil, and in his Palace of Porphyry.

The character of Zelica is, in many places, touched with great delicacy and beauty, but it is very dimly conceived, and neither vigorously nor consistently executed. The progress of that mental malady, which ultimately throws her into the power of the impostor, is confusedly traced; and very frequently philosophical observations and physical facts on the subject of insanity, are given in the most unimpassioned and heavy language, when the Poet's mind should have been entirely engrossed with the case of the individual before him. For a long time we cannot tell whether Mokanna has affected her utter ruin or not, Mr Moore having the weakness to conceal that, of which the distinct knowledge is absolutely necessary to the understanding of the poem. There is also a good deal of trickery in the exhibition he makes of this lady's mental derangement. Whether she be in the Haram, the gardens of the Haram, the charnel-house, or the ramparts of a fortress, she is always in some uncommon attitude, or some extraordinary scene. At one time she is mad, and at another she is perfectly in her senses; and often, while we are wondering at her unexpected appearance, she is out of sight in a moment, and leaves us almost as much bewildered as herself. On the whole, her character is a fail

ure.

Of Azim we could say much, if it were not that the situations in which he is placed so strongly remind us of Lord Byron's heroes. There is no thing like plagiarism or servile imitation about Mr Moore, but the current of his thoughts has been drawn into the more powerful one of Lord Byron's mind; and, except that Azim is represented as a man of good principles, he looks, speaks, and acts, exactly in the style of those energetic heroes who have already so firmly established themselves in the favour of the public. We confess, therefore, that we have not felt for him the interest due to his youth, beauty, valour, misfortunes,

and death.

The next poem is entitled, "Paradise and the Peri." It opens thus: "One morn, a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate;

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
HEAV'N!

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin;-
'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in.""

The Peri then flies. away in quest of this gift, and in a field of battle beholds a glorious youth slain, when endeavouring to destroy the invader of She carries to the gates his country. of Paradise a drop of blood from his heroic heart; but,

"Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
Who died thus for their native land.
But see-alas! the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not ;-holier far
Than ev❜n this drop the boon must be,
That opes the gates of heav'n for thee !'"

Once more the Peri wings her flight to earth, and, after bathing her plumage in the fountains of the Nile, floats over the grots, the balmy groves, and the royal sepulchres of Egypt, till at length she alights in the vale of Rozetta, near the azure calm of the Lake of Mæris. This beautiful scene is devastated by the plague, and "Just then, beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free *** Like age at play with infancy, Beneath that fresh and springing bower. Close by the Lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone; One who, in life, where'er he moved

Drew after him the hearts of many;

Yet now, as though he ne'er was loved,

A

Dies here unseen, unwept, by any!?A But he is not left alone to die.

"But see who yonder comes by stealth, I This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek! 'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betrothed bride;

She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to her's she presses,:~ And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses."

The lovers die in each others arms, and the Peri carries up to paradise the farewell sigh breathed by the devoted maid. The reader of this part of the poem will not fail to observe a most striking similarity in the description of the death of these lovers, to the death of Frankfort and Magdalene, in Mr Wilson's "City of the Plague," which indeed Mr Moore himself notices, with high commendation of the corresponding passage. A coincidence so strik ing, and yet so entirely accidental, may serve to shew the folly of those critics who are for ever raising the cry of plagiarism, and who cannot conceive the souls of two poets affected by the breath of the same inspiration.-But even this holy sigh fails to win admittance to the Peri, who, once more winging her way to the Holy Land, floats through the dying sunshine that bathes Mount Lebanon, and, circling the ruins of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec, alights beneath the shadow of its ruined columns. Here she sees a beautiful child at play among the rosy wild-flowers, while a man of a fierce and savage aspect dismounts from his steed, in all the perturbation of guilt and remorse.

"Yet tranquil now, that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked, and lay
Watching the rosy infant's play :-
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burned all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From SYRIA's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh, 'twas a sight that Heaven-that Child-
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Ev'n haughty EBLIS of a sigh

For glories past, and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched man,
Reclining there-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
VOL. I.

Nor found one sunny resting-place,-
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones" thou blessed child!
When young and haply pure as thou,
He hung his head each nobler aim,
I looked and prayed like thee-but now

And hope, and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept he wept !"

The Peri carries a tear of penitence to Paradise-the gates unfold-and the angel welcomes her into eternal bliss.

We think this poem, on the whole, the most beautiful and characteristic of all Mr Moore's compositions. Though wild and fanciful, it everywhere makes an appeal to the heart ; and we can allow the flight of a Peri to be described with more gorgeous and brilliant colouring, than the real or imaginary travels of an ordinary mortal. Accordingly, the ornamental and descriptive parts, though long and protracted, never weary, and we willingly resign ourselves up to a delightful dream. It might not perhaps have been in Mr Moore's power to have opened the gate of the dungeon-soul of guilt, and brought into our ears all the terrible sounds that disturb its haunted darkness. He has followed a safer course, and confined himself rather to the outward signs of remorse than its inward agonies. There is therefore nothing in this tale that can entitle Mr Moore to be classed with those Poets who have penetrated into the deepest and darkest recesses of the soul; but there is much in it to render him worthy of taking his place among the best of those whose genius has breathed a new beauty over innocence and virtue.

We shall give our readers an account, in our next Number, of the two remaining poems, the "Fire Worshippers," and the " Light of the Haram." We may perhaps then speak a little more at length of Mr Moore's faults, which we indistinctly feel to be numerous, and blended, we fear incurably, with his merits. But we wished, at present, to give those of our readers who have not seen the volume an idea of its general character ; and this, we hope, we have done more effectually by the means now pursued, than if we had indulged ourselves in minute and captious criticism. 20

of George Buchanan. By DAVID IRVING, LL.D. The Second Edition. 8vo. pp. 486. Blackwood, Edinburgh. Cadell and Davies, London, 1817.

-an

GEORGE BUCHANAN is an instance of more various excellence than belongs to any man of his time. He was, in Latin, a lyric and dramatic poet,historian, and the most rational and accomplished writer on politics of that age; and all this with a spirit of free dom, which Milton and Sydney, a century afterwards, did not excel, and with a grammatical accuracy of which Quintilian himself might have proved. As a practical politician, he was firm, moderate, and judicious; too high-minded to adopt all the fervour of vulgar prejudice while he was essentially bound in mind and heart to the popular cause, and too independent to make common interest with an ignorant and selfish nobility,

ap

-or to flatter the weaknesses of a pedantic monarch; though in the one body he could see a part more worthy than the rest, and, in the other, something that was to be supported as belonging to the chief magistrate of the nation. It is pleasing to speak of such a man in the language of Mil

ton.

"A better senator ne'er held The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell'd

The fierce Epirot, and the Afran bold;
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow states, hard to be spell'd;
Then to advise how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

In all her equipage: besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each

means,

What severs each."

As an officer of the government, he was disinterested, and as useful and intelligent as we can imagine of one who had a large previous acquaintance with mankind-great natural acute ness, and an intimate friendship and connexion with the wisest statesmen of his day. His noble generosity, and contempt of all pecuniary advantages, may be inferred from the fact, that though he had been preceptor to the king, and enjoyed some of the most honourable and lucrative appointments, along with a pension of five hundred pounds, yet all he died possessed of

of that pension. As for the finer shades of his personal character, we have no materials on which to ground a fair account of them, and mere presumption, in this case, is neither honest nor useful. But we think that the opening of his " Admonitioun" is clearly illustrative of a genteel modesty of demeanour, and an arch suavity of manner, nearly allied to generosity and vigour of mind, and far removed from pedantry or bigotry. The passage would do honour to the adroit politeness of a modern adviser.

For his vigorous determination of mind, and strong sense of independ ence, the story related by James Melvin, among other instances, may suf‐ fice. A year before the death of the historian, while his health was declining, Andrew Melvin and his nephew, James, paid him a visit; and finding that in the latter part of his history, rather freely of the conduct of Queen which was then at press, he had spoken Mary in the affair of Rizzio, ventured to express their fears that the king would issue a prohibition against the work. "Tell me, man," said Buchanan, "if I have told the truth?"-" Yes, sir," replied his cousin, "I think so." "Then," rejoined the dying histori an, "I will abide his feud, and all his kin's. Pray to God for me, and let him direct all."

As an historian, he is remarkable for the classical purity and richness of his diction, and commendable, in so far as regards events that approach his own times, for the spirit and "soothfor a high-minded regard to the liberfastness" of his narration,-as well as ties and happiness of mankind.-Of his dialogue," De Jure Regni," we can only say, that it brings him far beyond his age, and that coupling its invaluable principles, which are those of our English revolution, with its exquisite Latinity, it is the finest prose composition by any modern in the language of ancient Rome.

In this work, as well as in his history, the maxims of free government, though they be too frequently and carefully sanctioned, as was the practice of his time, by references to clas sical story, and though they attach too much to the ancient problem of tyrannicide, are wonderfully distinct. To their exclusive honour, however, it must be said, that they bear not the least evi