THE HAPPY VALLEY.

499

fonder welcome than ever into his repentant arms. The whole piece is written in a kind of rapture, as if the author had breathed nothing but intoxicating gas during its composition. It is accordingly quite filled with lively images and splendid expressions, and all sorts of beauties, -except those of reserve or simplicity. We must give a few specimens, to revive the spirits of our readers after the tragic catastrophe of Hafed; and we may begin with this portion of the description of the Happy Valley.

"Oh! to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines;
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet,

From the cool shining walks where the young people meet -
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.
When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

p. 296.

The character of Nourmahal's beauty is much in the same taste: though the diction is rather more loose and careless.

"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
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of Heav'n in his dreams!
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face.

eyes,

1

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 controul
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkl'd no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she bright'ned all over,
Like fair lake that the breeze is upon,

any

When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun.

- p. 302, 303. We can give but a little morsel of the enchanting Song of the Spirit of Music.

66 6

6

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,

And mine are the murm'ring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone
yet moves with a breath.

And, oh how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars that wink and listen,
While Heav'n's eternal melodies roll!""

p. 318, 319.

Nourmahal herself, however, in her Arabian disguise, sings a still more prevailing ditty-of which we can only insert a few stanzas.

BEAUTIFUL SONGS.

Then come! thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia tree,

The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness!
Come! if the love thou hast for me
Is pure
and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, - and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place :

Then, fare thee well! - I'd rather make
My bow'r upon some icy lake

When thawing suns begin to shine,

Than trust to love so false as thine!""

501

This strain, and the sentiment which it embodies, remind the offended monarch of his charming Nourmahal ; and he names her name in accents of tenderness and regret.

"The mask is off- the charm is wrought!

And Selim to his heart has caught,

In blushes, more than ever bright,

His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!"- p. 334.

We have now said enough, and shown enough, of this book, to let our readers understand both what it is, and what we think of it. Its great fault certainly is its excessive finery, and its great charm the inexhaustible copiousness of its imagery - the sweetness and ease of its diction and the beauty of the objects and sentiments with which it is concerned. Its finery, it should also be observed, is not the vulgar ostentation which so often disguises poverty or meanness - but the extravagance of excessive wealth. We have said this, however, we believe before- and suspect we have little more to

say.

All poets, who really love poetry, and live in a poetical age, are great imitators; and the character of their writings may often be as correctly ascertained by observing whom they imitate and whom they abstain from imitating, as from any thing else. Mr. Moore, in the volume before us, reminds us oftener of Mr. Southey

502

MOORE

HIS POETICAL RELATIONS.

and Lord Byron, than of any other of his contempora ries. The resemblance is sometimes to the Roderick of the first-mentioned author, but most frequently to his Kehama. This may be partly owing to the nature of the subject; but, in many passages, the coincidence seems to be more radical-and to indicate a considerable conformity, in taste and habits of conception. Mr. Southey's tone, indeed, is more assuming, his manner more solemn, and his diction weaker. Mr. Moore is more lively his figures and images come more thickly; and his language is at once more familiar, and more strengthened with points and antitheses. In other respects, the descriptive passages in Kehama bear a remarkable affinity to many in the work before us — in the brightness of the colouring, and the amplitude and beauty of the details. It is in his descriptions of love, and of female loveliness, that there is the strongest resemblance to Lord Byron - at least to the larger poems of that noble author. In the powerful and condensed expression of strong emotion, Mr. Moore seems to us rather to have imitated the tone of some of his Lordship's smaller pieces- but imitated them as only an original genius could imitate-as Lord Byron himself may be said, in his later pieces, to have imitated those of an carlier date. There is less to remind us of Scott than we can very well account for, when we consider the great range and variety of that most fascinating and powerful writer; and we must say, that if Mr. Moore could bring the resemblance a little closer, and exchange a portion of his superfluous images and ecstacies for an equivalent share of Mr. Scott's gift of interesting and delighting us with pictures of familiar nature, and of that spirit and energy which never rises to extravagance, we think he would be a gainer by the exchange. To Mr. Crabbe there is no resemblance at all; and we only mention his name to observe that he and Mr. Moore seem to be the antipodes of our present poetical sphere; and to occupy the extreme points of refinement and homeliness that can be said to fall within the legitimate dominion of poetry. They could not meet in the middle,

HIS MORAL LESSONS UNEXCEPTIONABLE.

503

we are aware, without changing their nature, and losing their specific character; but each might approach a few degrees, we think, with great mutual advantage. The outposts of all empires are posts of peril:- though we do not dispute that there is great honour in maintaining them with success.

There is one other topic upon which we are not quite sure whether we should say anything. On a former occasion, we reproved Mr. Moore perhaps with unnecessary severity, for what appeared to us the licentiousness of some of his youthful productions. We think it a duty to say, that he has long ago redeemed that error; and that in all his latter works that have come under our observation, he appears as the eloquent champion of purity, fidelity, and delicacy, not less than of justice, liberty, and honour. Like most other poets, indeed, he speaks much of beauty and love; and we doubt not that many mature virgins and careful matrons may think his lucubrations on those themes too rapturous and glowing to be safely admitted among the private studies of youth. We really think, however, that there is not much need for such apprehensions: And, at all events, if we look to the moral design and scope of the works themselves, we can see no reason to censure the author. All his favourites, without exception, are dutiful, faithful, and self-denying; and no other example is ever set up for imitation. There is nothing approaching to indelicacy even in his description of the seductions by which they are tried; and they who object to his enchanting pictures of the beauty and pure attachment of the more prominent characters would find fault, we suppose, with the loveliness and the embraces of angels.