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O TAKE not, dearest Mary! from my view
That gentle boy, who, in thy fond embrace
Delighted smiling, lends more winning grace
Unto thy airy form and blooming hue.
'Tis sweet on these young eyes of liquid blue
To gaze-and in the features of a face,
Where nought of Ill hath stampt unhallow'd
trace,

To read "whate'er is Lovely, Pure, and
True."

Ah! happy Child! too soon the Early Dew Of youth shall fade, and scorching suns destroy

The Vernal Freshness time can ne'er renew! Yet sip a while the Flysian draught of joyYet dream a little longer safe from harmsNo ill can reach thee in these angel arms! E.

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Yet-ere the bosom's genial fires depart, And care and sadness settle round the heartOh! yet before those Evil Days begin, When all grows dark without, and cold within,

Come, Heavenly Power! with hope-reviving

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OH, sweet my Baby! liest thou here,
So low, so cold, and so forsaken ?

And cannot a sad Father's tear
Thy once too lovely smiles awaken ?

Ah, no! within this silent tomb
Thy Parents' hopes receive their doom £
Oh, sweet my Baby! round thy brow
The Rose and Yew are twin'd together;
The Rose was blooming-so wast Thou-
Too blooming far for Death to gather.

The Yew was green,-and green to me
For ever lives thy Memory.

I have a flower, that press'd the mouth
Of one upon his cold bier lying,
To me more fragrant than the South,
O'er banks of op'ning violets flying;
Although its leaves look pale and dry,
How blooming to a Father's eye!
Oh, sweet my Baby! is thine head
Upon a rocky pillow lying?
And is the dreary grave thy bed-
Thy lullaby a Father's sighing?

Oh, chang'd the hour since thou didst rest
Upon a Mother's faithful breast!

Oh! can I e'er forget the kiss

I gave thee on that morn of mourning,—
That last sad tender parting bliss
From Innocence to God returning !
Mayst thou repay that kiss to me,
In realms of bright eternity!

D. F: A.

Lalla Rookh.

REVIEW OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

An Oriental Romance. By THOMAS MOORE. 4to. London, Longman and Co. 1817.

(Concluded from page 285.)

WHEN We gave our readers an account of the "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," and "Paradise and the Peri," the romance of Lalla Rookh had just been presented to the public, and some anxiety was naturally felt by the friends and admirers of Mr Moore, respecting its ultimate destiny. For the first time, he had come forward as the author of a long and continuous work; and while they, who saw in his former short compositions convincing and satisfactory evidence that he had the strength and power of a poet, confidently hoped that his oriental romance would entitle him to sit by the side of his loftiest contemporaries, others, again, who had hitherto regarded him in the light of an elegant and graceful versifier merely, were afraid that he had rashly committed himself in too great an undertaking, and anticipated failure, discomfiture, and defeat. On the first appearance, therefore, of this work, there was a kind of doubting, and pausing hesitation and perplexity, in the minds of those readers who think it better to criticise than to admire; and who, instead of yielding to the genial sense of delight which the inspiration of genius awakens, are intent only on the discovery of faults, defects, and imperfections, and ever seeking opportunities of displaying their own acumen and perspicacity. But this wavering uncertainty in the public mind soon gave way to favourable decision; the carping criticism of paltry tastes and limited understandings faded before that burst of admiration with which all enlightened spirits hailed the beauty and magnificence of Lalla Rookh; and it was universally acknowledged throughout Britain, that the star of Moore's genius, which had long been seen shining on the horizon, had now reached its altitude in heaven, and burnt with uneclipsed glory among its surrounding luminaries.

As, however, a two-guinea quarto must have a comparatively slow circu

lation, it is probable that many of our readers have not yet seen this delightful romance, and will be obliged to us for an analysis of the "Fire Worshippers" and "The Light of the Haram," with such extracts as may enable them to judge for themselves of the poetical genius which they display. They must bear in remembrance the wild and supernatural majesty of the Veiled Prophet-the pomp and magnificence of his array, when waging war against tyranny and superstition-the demoniac and remorseless wickedness of his soul, rendered fierce and savage by the hideous aspect with which nature had cursed himhis scorn, and mockery, and insult, and murder, of all the best hopes, and passions, and aspirations of humanity

his headlong and precipitous career, whether in victory or defeat-his sinful and insane enjoyment of distraction, misery, and blood-and, finally, his last mortal repast, where he sat alone amid the poisoned carcases of his deluded proselytes,—and that fearful plunge into annihilation from the shipwreck of his insatiable ambition, which left on earth only the remembrance of his name and the terror of his guilt. In contrast with this mysterious Personification, they will remember the pure and lofty faith of the heroic Azim in the creed and destiny of the Impostor-his agony on discovering the delusion under which he had cherished such elevating dreams

his silent, and uncomplaining, and rooted despair, when he finds his Zelica the prey of sin and insanityhis sudden apparition, like a WarGod, among the triumphant troops of the Caliph-and at last, when his victorious career is closed, his retirement into solitude, and his calm and happy death, a gray-haired man, on the grave of her he had loved, and whose Vision, restored to former innocence and beauty, comes to bless the hour of his dissolution. Powerfully and beautifully drawn as these two Characters are, and impressive when separately considered, it will be felt that the most striking effect is produced by their opposition, and that the picture of wicked ambition, relent

less cruelty, insatiable licentiousness, and blaspheming atheism, stands more prominently forward from the canvass, when placed beside that of self-neglecting heroism, forgiving generosity, pure love, and lofty devotion.

But if the wild tale of the Veiled Prophet possessed the imagination of our readers, and awoke all their shuddering sympathies, they will not easily forget the mild and gentle beauties of "Paradise and the Peri," and will turn to it, from the perusal of the other, with such feelings of placid delight as when the soul reposes on the sunny slope of a pastoral hill, after its descent from the grim cliffs of a volcanic mountain. Never was a purer and more dazzling light shed over the dying countenance of a self-devoted patriot, than over that hero whose heart's blood the Peri carries to Paradise. There is no needless description-no pouring out of vague and general emotions-none of the common-places of patriotism; but the story of the fallen Hero tells itself. The situation is all in all; his last sighs are breathed beneath the overshadowing wings of a celestial creature, sympathizing in her own fall with the sorrows of humanity; and lying thus by the blood-stained waters of his native river, with the red blade broken in his hand, what more beautiful and august picture can be conceived of unconquerable Virtue? The second picture, of the Lovers dying of the Plague, is not less exquisite. The soul is at once filled with that fear and horror which the visitation strikes through its vital blood; while, at the same time, the loveliness, the stillness, the serenity of the scene in which Death is busy, chaining the waves of passion into a calm,-do most beautifully coalesce with the pure love and perfect resignation of the youthful victims, till the heart is left as happy in the contemplation of their quiet decease, as if Love had bound them to life and enjoyment. Yet the concluding picture of the sinless Child and the repentant Ruffian is perhaps still more true to poetry and to nature. Never did genius so beautify religion; never did an uninspired pen so illustrate the divine sentiment of a divine Teacher. What a dark and frightful chasm is heard to growl between the smiling sleep of the blessed Infant and the wakeful remorse of the espairing Murderer! By what bridge

shall the miserable wretch walk over to that calm and dreamlike land where his own infancy played? For, red though be his hands and his soul, he was once like that spotless Child. The poet feels-deeply feels that sentiment of our Christian Religion, which alone would prove its origin to have been divine, and representing repentance as the only operation of spirit by which our human nature can be restored from the lowest depth of perdition to its first state of comparative innocence, he supposes its first-shed tears not only to save the soul of the weeper, but, by a high and mysterious agency, to open the gates of Paradise to the Peri, as if the sacred shower alike restored, refreshed, and beautified, mortal and immortal Beings.

We feel that our remembrances have carried us away from our present main object. Yet we hope for indulgence. Poetry is not framed for the amusement of a passing hour. The feelings it excites are lodged in the depths of every meditative soul, and when it is considered what undue influence the low-born cares and paltry pursuits of ordinary existence seem, by a kind of mournful necessity, to exert over the very best natures, it can never be a vain or useless occupation, to recall before us those pure and lofty visions which are created by the capacities rather than the practices of the spirit within us, and with which our very sympathy proves the grandeur and magnificence of our destiny.

The ground-work of the "Fire Worshippers," is the last and fatal struggle of the Ghebers, or Persians of the old religion, with their Arab conquerors. With the interest of this contest, there is combined (as is usual in all such cases) that of a love story; and though we confess ourselves hostile in general to this blending of individual with general feelings, as destructive of the paramount importance of the one, and the undivided intensity of the other; yet, in this instance, great skill is shewn in the combination of the principal and subordinate adventures, and if there be an error of judgment in such a plan, it is amply atoned for by the vigour and energy of the execution. The scene is laid on the Persian side of the gulph which separates that country from Arabia, and is sometimes known by the name of Oman's Sea. The Fire Wor

an.

shippers have at last been driven to take refuge in an inaccessible rock hanging over the sea, the last solitary link of that stupendous chain of mountains stretching down from the CaspiFrom this den they hold out defiance to the Emir al Hassan; and their chief, Hafed, the last hope of Iran, is clothed, in the imagination of the terrified Mahommedans, with all the attributes of an infernal spirit. Among his own followers, he is adored for his beauty, his valour, his patriotism, and his piety. The sacred fire is kept constantly kindled on the summit of the cliff-all hope of preserving it from extinction is finally gone-but Hafed and his Ghebers have sworn to perish in its flames, rather than submit to the Arabian yoke. A horn is hung over the battlements; and when it is heard pealing through the solitary cliffs, it is to be the signal of their voluntary doom, and they are then to be mingled with the holy and symbolical element of their worship. The love story, which is of a wild and romantic cha racter, is in some measure instrumental in the final catastrophe. Hafed, one dark midnight, has scaled a solitary tower, in which he believes the Emir sleeps, with the purpose, we suppose, of putting him to death; though we are afterwards inconsistently enough told, that had he found his enemy, he would have spared his life. He there finds Hinda, the young, artless, innocent, and beautiful Arabian maid-whose heart, soul, and senses, are at once fascinated by the adventurous stranger. As yet she knows not whence he comes, whither he goes, to what country he belongs. At last he tells her the fatal truth, that he is a Gheber, and that on earth their destinies must be severed. The Emir, meanwhile, ignorant of these nocturnal meetings, laments the decay of his daughter's health and beauty, and sends her in a pinnace to breathe the air of her native Araby. He first communicates to her his intention of that night storming, by surprise, the fortress of the Fire-Worshippers, the secret access to which has been betrayed to him by a captive traitor. The pinnace, in a sudden storm, runs foul of a war bark of Hafed, and is captured. Hinda then discovers that her unknown lover is in truth that terrific being whom she had been taught to fear, detest, and abhor; but who now

beams upon her soul in the midst of his devoted warriors, in all the glory of heroism and piety. She informs him that he is betrayed. In all the agony of hopeless love, he sends her, with a chosen guard, in a skiff, away from danger-he sounds the horn of destiny-the Arabs storm the ravine that leads to the cliff-after a direful contest, they prevail-Hafed and one bosom friend alone survive, and drag their wounded bodies to the sacred pyre-the Chief lays his brother, who has just fallen down dead, on the pilelights it with the consecrated brand,"And with a smile

Of triumph, vaulting on the Pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires
Have harmed one glorious limb-expires."

flood with its melancholy radiance— The death-pile illuminates rock and and Hinda, leaning in ghastly agonies against the mast of the skiff, beholds the tall shadowy figure of Hafed revealed before the burning pyre; and, shrieking out, "'tis he!" and springing as if to reach the blaze on which her dying looks are fixed, sinks into the sea,

"Deep-deep, where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again !" And here, unquestionably, the poem has come to a natural conclusion. But Mr Moore is not of that opinion, and thinks proper to make a Peri sing, "beneath the dark sea," a farewell dirge to "Araby's daughter." This dirge is of course filled with every image with which a Peri living beneath the dark sea may be supposed conversant; and we never recollect to have seen so laborious and cold a piece of mere ingenuity, immediately succeeding a catastrophe, which, though perhaps somewhat extravagant and unnatural, is both passionately conceived and expressed. The mind is left satisfied with the completion of their destiny; theirs was the real and living struggle of high passions, rendered higher by misfortune; and that heart-rending, life-destroying, necessity in which they were inextricably bound and delivered up to death, beyond all power of saving intervention, is that which gives to the poem all its human interest, and of which the pervading sense ought not to have been dispelled from our souls by the warblings of any imaginary creature, but should have been left to deepen and increase,—to fade or

die away in the solitary darkness of reflection.

We shall now endeavour, by extracts, to give our readers some idea of the execution of this fine Foem, the subject of which, and the story, is, we hope, clearly enough explained by the foregoing analysis.

We are thus introduced to Hinda, the heroine of the tale, and we think that, with the exception of the image of the serpent gazing on the emerald, which, in good truth, is but a sorry conceit, the description is most beautiful.

"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 steal-
ing,

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!"

A striking picture is conveyed in

And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay! This fancy ne'er hath left her mind; And though, when terror's swoon had past,

She saw a youth of mortal kind,

Before her in obeisance cast,-
Yet often since, when he has spoken,
Strange, awful words,-and gleams have
broken

From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
To some unhallowed child of air,
Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given

Some erring Spirit cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burned for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes!
Fond girl! nor fiend, nor angel he,
Who woos thy young simplicity;
But one of earth's impassioned sons,

As warm in love, as fierce in ire,
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire !"

There is infinite spirit, freedom, strength, and energy, in that part of the poem where Hinda discovers her lover to be a Gheber,-many fine and delicate touches of genuine pathos, and many bursts of uncontrollable passion. As for example:

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The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung

the following six lines, of Hinda lis-Here, maiden, look-weep-blush to see

tening the approach of her lover's skiff, from her airy tower: "Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar's impatient way; Ev'n now thou hear'st the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below!"

Her first interview with her lover, and all her bewildering emotions, are thus described:

"She loves but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;Like one who meets, in Indian groves,

!

Some beauteous bird, without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze From isles in th' undiscover'd seas, To shew his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away Will he thus fly-her nameless lover? Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, Alone, at this same witching hour,

She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs;

All that thy sire abhors in me!
Yes-I am of that impious race,

Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even, Hail their Creator's dwelling-place

Among the living lights of heaven!
Yes I am of that outcast few,
To IRAN and to vengeance true,
Who curse the hour your Arabs came
To desolate our shrines of flame,
To break our country's chains, or die!
And swear, before God's burning eye,
Thy bigot sire-nay, tremble not-

He, who gave birth to those dear eyes,
With me is sacred as the spot

From which our fires of worship rise! But know 'twas he I sought that night, When, from my watch-boat on the sea, I caught this turret's glimmering light, And up the rude rocks desperately Rush'd to my prey-thou know'st the rest I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, And found a trembling dove within ;Thine, thine the victory-thine the sinIf Love has made one thought his own, That vengeance claims first-last-alone ! Oh! had we never, never met, Or could this heart ev'n now forget How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, Had fate not frown'd so dark between!

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