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 Poem, 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 Religion's soften'd glories shine, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, A striking picture is conveyed in the following six lines, of Hinda listening the approach of her lover's skiff, from her airy tower: "Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray, 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, Alla forbid! 'twas by a moon 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 Some erring Spirit cast from heaven, 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 lover to be a Gheber,-many fine and the poem where Hinda discovers her delicate touches of genuine pathos, and many bursts of uncontrollable passion. As for example: death-' Hold, hold-thy words are The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath The Gheber belt that round him clungHere, maiden, look-weep-blush to see 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! He, who gave birth to those dear eyes, 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 net frown'd so dark between! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, In neighbouring yalleys had we dwelt, God! who could then this sword withstand ? And then, then only, true to love, When false to all that's dear beside ! Thy father, IRAN's deadliest foeThyself, perhaps, ev'n now-but noHate never look'd so lovely yet! No-sacred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee! When other eyes shall see, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all! But look. With sudden start he turn'd And pointed to the distant wave, While lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave; And fiery darts, at intervals, Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star, that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again.— As if he fled from love to death.. The length of these extracts prevents us from quoting the whole description of the hero Hafed; but the following lines will shew that he was worthy to be the lover of Hinda, and the chief of the Fire-Worshippers : Such were the tales that won belief, And such the colouring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul ador'd, For happy homes and altars free, His only talisman, the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty! Of sainted cedars on its banks ! The pageant of his country's shame; Of a first smile, so welcom'd he The description of the Hold of the Ghebers is vivid and picturesque : "Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants, in the flood, As if to guard the Gulf across ;— While on its peak that brav'd the sky, A ruin'd temple tower'd, so high, That oft the sleeping albatross Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering Started-to find man's dwelling there In her own silent field of air! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in ;And such the strange mysterious din At times throughout those caverns roll'd,— And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites imprison'd there, That bold were Moslem, who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff. On the land side, those towers sublime, That seem'd above the grasp of Time, Were sever'd from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, So fathomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between; It seem'd a place where Gholes might come With their foul banquets from the tomb, And in its caverns feed unseen. The sound of many torrents came; Or floods of ever-restless flame. That from its lofty altar shone,- Like its own God's eternal will, We shall conclude our extracts with the following exquisite description of a calm after a storm, and of Hinda awaking from a swoon of terror on board of the war-bark of Hafed; than which last it is difficult to conceive any thing of the kind making a nearer approach to the definite distinctness of the sister-art of painting. "How calm, how beautiful comes on When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, As if the loveliest plants and trees Such was the golden hour that broke Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, *"A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in places where thun der had fallen," &c. But the rude litter, roughly spread On looking back to our extracts, we feel that they give a very inadequate idea of the high and varied excellence of Mr Moore's poetry. But from a poem of four long cantos, how is it possible to give any but short and imperfect specimens? Yet though our readers may not be able, from these few passages, to judge of the design and execution of the whole poem, they will at least discover in them the hand of a master, as a judge of painting could, from the smallest shred of a picture, decide on the skill and genius of the artist, though he saw only a bit of colouring, and the contour of a single limb. For our own parts, we are of opinion, that if Mr Moore had written nothing but the Fire-Worshippers, he would have stood in the first rank of living poets. The subject is a fine one, and admirably suited to call forth the display of his peculiar feelings and faculties. His ardent and fiery love of Liberty, his impassioned patriotism, at times assuming the loftiest form of which that virtue is susceptible, and at others bordering upon a vague and objectless enthusiasm, his admiration of what may be called the virtues of his native land,-valour, courage, generosity, love, and religion; an admi ration which occasionally induces him to sympathise with illegitimate or extravagant exercises of such emotions, -his keen and exquisite perception of the striking, the startling, and the picturesque, in incident and situation,his wonderful command of a rich poetical phraseology, sometimes eminently and beautifully happy, and not unfrequently overlaid with too highlycoloured ornament and decoration,his flowing, rapid, and unobstructed versification, now gliding like a smooth and majestic river, and now like a mountain-stream dallying with the rocks, which rather seem to hasten than impede its course ;-all these powers and qualifications are exhibited in their utmost perfection, throughout the progress of a wild and romantic tale, in which we are hurried on from one danger to another-from peril to peril-from adventure to adventure from hope into sudden despair-from the exaltation of joy into the prostration of misery-from all the bright delusions and visionary delights of love dreaming on the bosom of happiness, into the black, real, and substantial horrors of irremediable desolation from youth and enjoyment, untamed and aspiring, into anguish, destiny, and death. Indeed, to us the great excellence of this poem is in the strength of attachment-the illimitable power of pas sion-displayed in the character and conduct of Hinda and Hafed-feelings different in their object, in minds so differently constituted as theirs, but equal in the degree of their intensity. From the first moment that we behold Hinda, we behold her innocent, pure, and spotless; but her heart, her soul, her senses, her fancy, and her imagination, all occupied with one glorious and delightful vision that for ever haunts, disturbs, and blesses-which has, in spite of herself, overcome and subdued, what was formerly the ruling emotion of her nature, filial affection, ---and which at last shakes the foundation even of the religious faith in which she had been brought up from a child, and forces her to love, admire, and believe that creed, of which there had been instilled into her mind the bitterest abhorrence-till she sees nothing on earth or in heaven but in relation to her devoted hero. Hafed, on the other hand, has had all the energies of his soul roused by the noblest objects, and the imperious de mand of the highest duties, before he has seen the divine countenance of Hinda. His soul is already filled with a patriotism which feels that it cannot restore the liberties of his country, though it may still avenge their destruction, with a piety that cannot keep unextinguished the fires sacred to its God, but hopes to preserve the shrine on which they burn unpolluted by profane hands, and finally to perish an immolation in the holy element. He feels that with him any love must be a folly, a madness, a crime; but above all, love to the daughter of the VOL. I. enemy of his country, his religion, and his God. Yet the divine inspiration, breathed from innocence and beauty, has mingled with his existence; and though there can be no union on earth between them, he wildly cherishes and clings to her image-shews his devotion, his love, and his gratitude, even after the fatal horn has sounded unto death-and abandons her in that extremity, only because he must not abandon the holy cause of liberty and truth. And here we may remark, that our full and perfect sympathy goes with the illustrious Gheber, both in the objects to which he is devoted, and the feelings with which that devotion is displayed. His is no cause of doubtful right-of equivocal justice. He is not a rebel dignified with the name of patriot, nor a wild enthusiast fighting in support of an absurd or wicked faith. He is the last of a host of heroes, who perish in defence of their country's independence ;-the last of an enlightened priesthood, we may say, who wished to preserve the sanctity of their own lofty persuasion against દ a creed of lust, and hate, and crime." The feelings, therefore, which he acts upon are universal, and free from all party taint a vice which, we cannot help thinking, infects several of Mr Moore's shorter poems, and mars their eminent beauty. Perhaps there are a few passages of general declamation, even in this poem, coloured by what some may think party rather than natural feelings; but they are of rare occurrence, and may easily be forgiven to a poet who belongs to a country where pride has long struggled with oppres sion-where religion has been given as a reason against the diffusion of po litical privileges-and where valour guards liberties which the brave are not permitted to enjoy. Another great beauty in the conduct of this poem is the calm air of grandeur which invests, from first to last, the principal agent-the utter hopelessness of ultimate success, yet the unshaken resolution of death, and the unpalpitating principle of a righteous vengeance. From the beginning we seem to know that Hafed and his Ghebers must die-yet the certainty of their death makes us feel a deeper interest in their life: they move for ever before us, like men under doom; 3 T For ourselves we have but small liking for such things, and consider it less a proof of versatility than incon and we foresee the glory of their end in the heroic tranquillity with which they all contemplate it-and at last are satisfied with the sweeping des-sistency, that a poet, capable of simple, truction of the final catastrophe, which leaves not one freeman in a land of slaves. But we are transgressing our limits, and have really left ourselves no room for pointing out the faults of this poem, and of Mr Moore's poetry in general. We must delay this ungracious task to our next Number, or some other opportunity. Indeed we almost think this task would be idle as well as ungracious, and feel as if we would shove it off entirely upon the shoulders of more fastidious critics. ་ We have not left ourselves room for an account of the remaining poem, "The Light of the Haram." It does not seem to require any. It is a graceful and elegant trifle, that ought to be perused in a drawing-room, richly furnished with all the ornaments and luxuries of fashionable life. There doubtless is nature in it, and therefore it must give pleasure to all kinds and classes of readers; but it is nature wholly under the influence of art and artificial feelings; and the poet has taken the same pains, and perhaps exhibited the same power, in describing whim, caprice, folly, and extravagance, that he has exerted on the legitimate subjects of his art. We think he might have been better employed, though we know nobody who could have wrought such a piece of fanciful embroidery but himself. But the tinkling of a guitar cannot be endured immediately after the music of the harp; and we dislike to see an accomplished performer wasting his powers on an insignificant instrument. But they who love to read of lovers' quarrels, may here find them gracefully narrated-may learn how the Son of Acbar became displeased with the Sultana Nourmahal-how the Feast of Roses at Cashmere lost all its delights. in consequence of this coolness-how Nourmahal got from an enchantress a wreath of flowers, which bestowed on her an irresistible and subduing spirit of song-how she assumed the disguise of a lutanist from Cashmere, and sung to the Emperor so bewitching a strain, that "Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes more than ever bright, His Nourmahal, his Haram's light." manly, elevated, noble, and heroic sentiments, and familiar with the grandest regions of the human soul, should condescend to trifle away his time with such sickly affectations, however graceful, and to pursue diseased and effeminate feelings through all the flowery alleys of an artificial fancy. But we are determined to part with Mr Moore with pleasure and complacency, and therefore take leave of him and our readers with a quotation from this very poem which has thus excited our spleen; and, truly,. if it contained many such passages, it would have admirers enough in spite of our criticism. Dissension between hearts that love! Yet in a sunny hour fall off, A A word unkind or wrongly takenOh! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this, has shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin ; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever!" Elements of the Natural History of the Animal Kingdom. By CHARLES STEWART, Fellow of the Linnæan and Wernerian Societies. 2 vols. 8vo. Second edition. Edinburgh, Bell and Bradfute. London, Longman and Co., 1817. A PROPER elementary work on Zoology has long been one of our principal desiderata in natural history; and the want of such a work in English has no doubt contributed material |