glory and triumph of human nature, display themselves in the concentration of patriotism or devotion, then the genius of Moore expands and kindles, and his strains are nobly and divinely lyrical. If Burns surpass him in simplicity and pathos-as certainly does he surpass Burns in richness of fancy -in variety of illustration-in beauty of language in melody of verse-and above all, in that polished unity, and completeness of thought and expression, so essential in all lyrical composition, and more particularly so in songs, which, being short, are necessarily disfigured by the smallest violation of language, the smallest dimness, weakness, or confusion in the thought, image, sentiment, or passion.

Entertaining the opinion which we have now imperfectly expressed of Mr Moore's poetical character, we opened Lalla Rookh with confident expectations of finding beauty in every page; and we have not been disappointed. He has, by accurate and extensive reading, imbued his mind with so familiar a knowledge of eastern scenery-that we feel as if we were reading the poetry of one of the children of the Sun. No European image ever breaks or steals in to destroy the illusion-every tone, and hue, and form, is purely and intensely Asiatic-and the language, faces, forms, dresses, mien, sentiments, passions, actions, and characters of the different agents, are all congenial with the flowery earth they inhabit, and the burning sky that glows over their heads. That proneness to excessive ornament, which seldom allows Mr Moore to be perfectly simple and natural-that blending of fanciful and transient feelings, with bursts of real passion that almost bacchanalian rapture with which he revels, amid the beauties of external nature, till his senses seem lost in a vague and indefinite enjoyment, that capricious and wayward ambition which often urges him to make his advances to our hearts, rather by the sinuous and blooming byeways and lanes of the fancy, than by the magnificent and royal road of the imagination-that fondness for the delineation of female beauty and power, which often approaches to extravagancy and idolatry, but at the same time is rarely unaccompanied by a most fascinating tenderness-in short, all the peculiarities of his genius adapt hím for the composition of an Oriental Tale,

in which we are prepared to meet with, and to enjoy, a certain lawless luxuriance of imagery, and to tolerate a certain rhapsodical wildness of sentiment and passion.

There is considerable elegance, grace, and ingenuity, in the contriv ance, by which the four Poems that compose the volume are introduced to the reader. They are supposed to be recited by a young poet, to enliven the evening hours of Lalla Rookh, daughter of the Emperor of Delhi, who is proceeding in great state and magnificence to Bucharia to meet her destined husband, the monarch of that kingdom. Of course, the princess and the poet fall desperately in love with each other-and Lalla looks forward with despair to her interview with her intended husband. But perhaps most novel readers will be prepared for the denouement better than the simpleminded Lalla Rookh, and will not, like her, be startled to find, that Feramorz the poet, and Aliris the king, are one and the same personage. All that relates to Lalla Rookh and her royal and poetical lover, is in prose-but prose of so flowery a kind, that it yields no relief to the mind, if worn out or wearied by the poetry. Neither do we think Fadladeen, that old musty Mahomedan critic, in any way amusing-though he sometimes hits upon objections to the poetry of Feramora, which it might not be very easy to answer. Can it be, that a man of genius like Mr Moore is afraid of criticism, and seeks to disarm it by anticipation? But let us turn to the poetry.

The first poem is entitled, "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan." opens thus:

"In that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowrets and fruits blush over every stream,

And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves Among Merou'st bright palaces and groves ;

There, on that throne, to which the blind

belief

Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-chief, The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung

* Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province, or Region of the Sun.

SIR W. JONES. One of the Royal Cities of Khorassan

In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight His dazzling brow, till man could bear the light.

For, far less luminous, his votaries said, Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed O'er Mousa's cheek, when down the mount he trod,

All glowing from the presence of his God!" This Mokanna is an Impostor, who works up the enthusiasm of his followers by the assumption of a divine character-and whose ostensible object is the destruction of all false religions, and every kind of tyranny and despotism. When these glorious objects are attained, he is then to throw aside his Silver Veil, and admit the ennobled souls of men to gaze upon his refulgent visage. In reality, however, he is a Being of a fiendish and demoniac nature, hating God and man, and burning for power and empire, that he may trample upon human nature with derision, mockery, and outrage, and thus insult and blaspheme the Eternal. The dominion which he exercises over his superstitious proselytes-the successful progress of his career-his lofty, wild, and mysterious doctrines-the splendour of his kingly state-the gorgeous magnificence of his array-the rich moresquework of his Haram-and the beauties from a hundred realms which it encloses are all described with great power and effect, though not unfrequently with no little extravagance and exaggeration. In his Haram is Zelica, the heroine of the poem, whom the supposed death of her lover Azim has driven into a kind of insanity. Mokanna so works upon the phrenzied enthusiasm of her disordered mind, as to convince her, that before she can enter into heaven, she must renounce her oaths of fidelity to Azim, and bind herself for ever on the earth to him, the Impostor. He conducts her into a charnel-vault, and there, surrounded with the ghastly dead, she takes the fatal oath, and seals it by a draught of human blood. Meanwhile, Azim returns from foreign war, and joins the banners of the Impostor. He then discovers the wicked arts of Mokanna, and the ruin of Zelica-abandons the Silver Veil-joins the army of the Caliph, and routs the Prophet-chief in various battles, till he forces him and his remaining infatuated followers to

* Moses

shut themselves up in a fortress. Mokanna, finding farther resistance in vain, poisons all his troops-and after venting his rage, hatred, and contempt on Zelica, leaps into a cistern of such potent poison, that his body is dissolved in a moment. Zelica covers herself with the Silver Veil, and Azim, her for Mokanna, and kills her. leading the storming party, mistakes

We could present our readers with from this singular poem; but as we many passages of tenderness and beauty shall have occasion to quote some stanzas of that character from "Paradise and the Peri," we shall confine ourselves to two extracts, in which Mr Moore has successfully attempted a kind of composition new to him; the one describing the armament of the Caliph as he marched against the Impostor, and the other, the last fatal adherents of his fallen fortunes. feast, at which Mokanna poisons the

"Whose are the gilded tents that crown

the way,

Where all was waste and silent yesterday? This City of War, which, in a few short hours,

Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers Of Him who, in the twinkling of a stár, Built the high pillared halls of Chilminar,* Had conjured up, far as the eye can see, This world of tents, and domes, and sunbright armory!

Princely pavilions, screened by many a fold Of crimson cloth, and topped with balls of gold;

Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,

Their chains and poitrels glittering in the

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 applause,

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!

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

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 singu lar 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 po litics 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 the Black Dwarf. He comes deformed that character is attributed-we mean 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