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 him 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 desper ately 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 simple-minded 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 Fadla deen, that old musty Mahomedan critic, in any way amusing-though he sometimes hits upon objections to the poetry of Feramorz, 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 dis arm it by anticipation? But let us turn to the poetry. The first poem is entitled, "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan."* It 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's + bright palaces and groves ; belief There, on that throne, to which the blind 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 language, Province, or Region of the Sun. Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian SIR W. JONES. One of the Royal Cities of Khorassan. 1817.1 Review-Lalla Rookh In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight For, far less luminous, his votaries said, All glowing from the presence of his God!" This Mokanna is an Impostor, who which he exercises over his supersti- Moses shut themselves up in a fortress. Mo- We could present our readers with "Whose are the gilded tents that crown Where all was waste and silent yesterday? hours, 2 Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star, Princely pavilions, screened by many a fold Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun, Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun; And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells, bells! But yester-eve, so motionless around, heard; Yet, hark! what discords now of every Shouts, laughs, and screams, are swelling in the wind! "The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed to have been built by the Genii, acting under the orders of Jan Ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam." "A native of Khorassan, and allured tain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the southward by means of the water of a founFountain of the Birds, of which it is so fond, that it will follow wherever that water is carried." 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. But, hark!-she stops-she listens-dreadful 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? Of the pale dawn, mixed with the flame of brands That round lay burning, dropped from lifeless hands, "This trumpet is often called in Abys sinia, 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-plainWould have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasped ;-but aş 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 souls' 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, e'er 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 1, 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 1817.3 Review-Lalla Rookh. And that but see!ere I have half-way said My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die, Nay, come-no shuddering-didst thou The Dead before? they graced our wedding, sweet, And these my guests to-night have brimmed Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins!- Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, From this very general outline of 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 Different, indeed, as the situations 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 unempassioned 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 effected 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 nothing 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; And as she listen'd to the Springs Through the half-open portal glowing, Should e'er have lost that glorious place." She wept, to think her recreant race The angel who keeps the gates of light then tells the Peri the conditions on which she may be re-admitted into Paradise. ""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 his country. She carries to the gates of Paradise a drop of blood from his heroic heart; but, "Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave 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 Rosetta, near the azure calm of the Lake of Mæris. This beautiful scene is devastated by the plague, and Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze "Just then, beneath some orange trees, 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; Yet now, as though he ne'er was loved, Dies here-unseen, unwept, by any !" But he is not left alone to die."But see who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, His livid cheek to her's she presses, |