productions of our cotemporary poets, were a modern library submitted to the tribunal that held an inquisition on that of Don Quixotte. It appears to us that in reviving the exploded taste of the middle ages we are relapsing into barbarism. Those prodigies which were adapted to rouse the curiosity and excite the astonishment of the ignorant of that period, are ill suited to please refined and discriminating readers. Paintings may delight children merely by the vividness of their colours; connoisseurs mark the design, and observe the distribution and the shading. English poetry has been heretofore celebrated for its philosophical character. It has abounded more in profound moral reflections than in surprising incident,―more in natural touches than in factitious sentiment. It has had generally a cast of thoughtfulness, and frequently of melancholy. Madame de Stael considers Homer and Ossian as the models of two different styles of poetry. The Eastern is addressed to the imagination, the Northern comes home to the understanding and the heart. She avows her preference for the latter. How ill do the quotidian productions of our presses warrant this commendation. They have indeed their full proportion of sadness, but we shall in vain search for moral truth or purpose. Extravagance of plot, language, and passion, is, at this moment, the only passport to circulation. Milton is no longer read, it may be because he has adorned Lucifer with too many good qualities for a fashionable hero. It is a long time since some wiseacre discovered that Pope was no poet,— and one Mr. Leigh Hunt has lately found out that he knew nothing of versification. Young, Cowper, Thomson, Gray, Collins, &c. are laid on the shelf; and the rising generation are not likely to know that we have any thing better in our literature than the verses of Scott, Byron, Hunt, Coleridge and Moore. Even the best of our living bards have fallen into neglect. Campbell, Southey, (we mean the author of Roderick,) and Rogers are thrown into the shade. We are sorry that the last of these gentlemen should lend his name so freely to literary works which his good sense must condemn. It were better to leave Lord Byron and his friends to the benefits of their system of mutual dedication. Still we do not mean to deny to some of these writers an extraordinary degree of merit, in their way. Scott first brought into view a train of corroded passions, compounded of oppozite moral elements, and stimulated by the operation of powerful external causes, the developement of which produces a feeling of awe approaching to sublimity. Byron has given a wider scope to these mysterious metaphysics, and has drawn out delineations of the human heart that presentit in an aspect of the highest interest, though of the most painful contemplation. From their very nature, however, it is as impossible as is undesirable, long to keep up the tone of these unnatural energies. The gradual corruption of taste is equally seen in the degradation of the drama. Shakespeare, Otway, Congreve, Rowe, Farquhar, Goldsmith, Sheridan, and Cumberland, have been driven off the boards by the Titanian progeny of the melo-drame. The stage has been converted into a circus, or an arena. Wit, sentiment, and song, have been supplanted by necromancy, fustian, and fanfaronnade. Mr. Moore has, indeed, only suffered himself to be borne along by the downward current. He has been persuaded to barter his reversionary reputation for three thousand guineas, and a balance of ephemeral notoriety. It was a pitiful compromise. Those who know how to value the meed of 'immortal fame,' will -' never choose, Gold for the object of a generous muse.' If he has been dazzled by the splendid errors of a great but erratic genius, it is an excusable weakness, though not a less fatal mistake. It is a debasement of mind to become the implicit disciple of any school; and all who are emulous of lasting renown will avoid Byronism in poetry, as they would Pyrrhonism in ethics. But as Mr. Moore is a neophyte, we hope he may yet be reclaimed. It is no more than just, however, as we have charged on Mr. Moore all the faults of the story which he has copied, to give him full credit for the characters and passages which he has invented or embellished. Azim is of his own creation; and though the concubine of history suggested his Zelica, he has contrived to attach a powerful interest to their unhappy fate. The description of their youthful loves, the cruel anxiety his absence caused to Zelica, the blasting influence of the rumour of his death upon her peace and reason, his fond hopes and unsuspecting faith,-and the exquisite misery of their interview in the palace of the Prophet,all these circumstances of cumulative From the general encomium we have passed upon Mr. Moore's similes, we must except the resemblance of the me mory of past loves to a Church-yard light,' as presenting an idea disagreeable in itself and of course incapable of recommending, by its association, a delicate sentiment. The beautiful allusion to the bulbul' is not original. Zelica's assimilation of the effect that would be wrought on her by living in the light of Azim's eyes, to that produced upon wretchedness fasten upon the fancy and Turn'd to foul fires to light (her) into sin. We did not wish to interrupt the narration with comments; and we must content ourselves, now, with indicating a few of the minor particulars in which this poem is deserving praise or reprobation. -The stain'd web that whitens in the sun, equally ingenious and charming. We have not room to point out many others which cannot fail to catch the attention of the reader. After what we have already said of the character of Mokanna, we shall dismiss his scurrility as quick as possible. Most of his eloquence, and that of the poet in describing him, consists in the liberal use of such sonorous and recondite terms, as 'curse,' 'curst,' damn,' 'damning,' damned,'' hell,' 'hell-fire,' &c. &c. &c. In regard to the versification, Mr. Moore appears to have taken Leigh Hunt for his model; and has produced a lame imitation of a bad exemplar. The very first couplet in the poem is amazingly bald and prosaic. In that delightful province of the sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon,- Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, &c. The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; &c. We might pick out any quantity of such instances. But it is not so much the redundancy or deficiency of Mr. Moore's measure of which we complain as the absolute want of movement. By counting one's fingers it is evident that in the third of the above lines, there is the requisite number of syllables--but surely, not the least imaginabie poetry. It is the bane of French verse that the language does not admit of inversion. Ours will be equally enervated when Leigh Hunt and his confederates shall have brought it down to the level of every-day conversation. The only recompense that rhyme offers for the trammels by which it confines an author is the exactness of its harmony and the skill of the structure of the stanza. Fiction may be as well clothed in prose as in rhyme, figurative language is not appropriated to either, and imagination may indulge her discursive flights as well in the one as in the other. The charm of poetry consists in its melody, the choice of its epithets, and the nice propriety of its construction. In every other respect prose has the superiority. The prose writer has no pains in adjusting the balance of his words, or the length of his periods. His attention is not arrested by the signs of his ideas,it is fixed on the ideas themselves. He finds no difficulty in approaching any subject he may have occasion to treat, nor, has he any need of periphrasis. It is principally to this freedom of thought and fancy that we attribute the pre-eminence of the writers of the prose romances of the present day over its minstrels. Waverley, Guy Mannering, the Antiquary, and the Tales of my Landlord, are altogether superior productions to the popu lar ballads; and Miss Edgeworth's and Miss Burney's novels are much more instructive and entertaining. We speak only of cotemporary literature, or we might adduce a host of examples in support of our position. We are mistaken if even Mr. Southey's chance of future fame do not rest mainly on his prose writings; though his Roderick is the only legitimate epic, and, on the whole, the best poem of the age. We have another objection to metrical romances. Such is the facility with which even the best of them may be produced, that, if they are to be recognized as classical poetry, the multiplication of them will soon render it impossible for those who pursue any other studies to keep up an acquaintance with classical authors. We shall have no standards. Allusions will be lost. In fact, even at this moment, an allusion to Milton, Dryden, or Pope, is not understood, by the generality of belles-lettres scholars. We shall therefore strenuously oppose the admission of mere ballad-makers into the rank of poets. We are aware that Mr. Moore has put an argument of this nature into the mouth of Fadladeen. He should have felt its force. Having devoted so much room to "The Veiled Prophet,' we must give a summary account of the succeeding poems. 'Paradise and the Peri' is a very pleasing little allegory, and conveys an excellent moral. An abridgment of the story must be insipid, as it derives its greatest charm from the manner in which it is related. The Peris are the fairies of the east. The poet represents one of these imaginary beings as sighing at the gate of paradise for admission to those celestial regions which her 'recreant race' had forfeited. The angel who guards the portal, compassionating her distress, informs her that one hope still remains to her of regaining those glorious seats, since In 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The gift that is most dear to Heaven! pursuit of this acceptable offering the Peri wings her way to earth. As she ap proaches she hears the din of battle, and hovers over the field of strife. She sees a gallant warrior, the sole survivor of his country's hopes, Alone, beside his native river- And the last arrow in his quiver. False flew the shaft, though pointed well- And when the rush of war was past, Of morning light, she caught the last-- Heaver, does not procure the suitor adBut this, though a grateful libation to mission to the realms of bliss. The Peri renews her pursuit. She next tenders the last sigh of a fond and faithful maid who had expired on the corse of her lover, a victim to that pestilence of which she had voluntarily imbibed the infection from his lips, when there was none else that dared to smooth the pillow of death. The Peri boldly claims her reward. The Angel essays to unclose the everlasting gates. His efforts are unavailing. It is with reluctance he announces to the Peri, that Despondently the Peri revisits the nether world. The first objects that arrest her attention are a lovely child, carelessly stretched on the green sward, resting his tender limbs after the fatigues he had endured in chasing painted butterflies through the mead, and, near him, a man whose desperate countenance unfolds the scroll of his fell deeds ; The ruin'd maid-the shrine profan'd- Yet tranquil now that man of crime, Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, At this instant the 'vesper call of pray- Oh 'twas a sight-that Heav'n-that Child- And hope and feeling, which had slept The Fire-Worshippers is a poem in four Cantos. It exhibits strong expressions of intense emotions. In describing natural scenery the author has shown a poetic sensibility to the picturesque, though his groupings do not always present a distinct tablet to the fancy. He is indebted to heaven and hell for much of his imagery and most of his epithets. We will endeavour to give an outline of the fable. The scene is laid in Persia. Hinda, the daughter of Al Hassan, an Arabian chief, who governs the country in the name of the Khalifs, by whose arms it had recently been subdued, is enjoying the freshness of the evening breeze, in the tower of a lofty fortress, by the sea-side. This tower her father believed inaccessible, but a daring youth had contrived to climb it. His name and race are un known to Hinda, but his temerity has obtained him admission to her heart and chamber. At this hour he appears as usual, but not as he was wont, elate and daring. She marks his altered mien— bids him not to give way to despair, tells him that her father loves the brave, and will bless their union. She urges him to join the standard of the Emir, and display his warlike qualities in the war that is yet waged against the remnant of the Ghebers those slaves of Fire.' On this the incognito throws back his cloak, and exposes the badge of that 'impious race,' as the Moslems termed them. This discovery fills poor Hinda with dismay. They exchange a sad farewell. From this time Hinda shudders at the sight of the reeking weapons of her father's troops, who return in triumph from their daily conflicts with the diminished Ghebers. At length Al Hassan informs her that the secret path to their last fastness had been disclosed to him, and that he would that night extirpate their name and worship. The terrors of Hinda are increased by this dreadful intelligence, She cannot flatter herself that her lover will longer escape. Her father, who attri butes her agitation to timidity, determines to send her back to the quiet of her native bowers. She is accordingly embarked for the coast of 'Araby.' The vessel is captured by the Ghebers. Hinda faints away during the contest, and on awakening, finds herself on the deck of the enemy's ship, under an awning of war-cloaks suspended from the spears of the victors. Yet she had seen, or thought she saw, her lover shielding her in the veyed, by subterranean passages, to the danger of that fight. She is now conmountain hold of the terrible Hafed. The approach of this dreaded chief of the Fire-Worshippers is announced. The guards retire. Hinda dares not raise her eyes, when a well known voice gently speaks her name in her ear. The terrific Hafed is no other than her own dear Gheber! But they had little time for amatory discourse. Hinda apprizes him of his impending danger. He promptly takes his measures. Hinda is conducted to the bark, fondly imagining that Hafed will accompany her. He has, however, blown the horn, which was the concerted signal for summoning his adherents to the final struggle. The funeral altar is prepared for those who may not be so happy as to purchase a grave at the hand of the foe. A horrid shout proclaims the advance of the Arabs. Hafed comrades meet them in a defile, and maintain themselves till the pass is bridged by the dead. Hafed, with a single surviving companion, regains the fortress. That companion expires as they reach it. Hafed lays his corse upon the pyre, applies the torch and plunges into the flame. Hinda, with heart-rending anxiety, had listened on the waters to the clash of the distant combat,-she had noted the silence that succeeded it,-but when the light of the kindled pile flashed through the gloom, and betrayed for a moment her Hafed's form, to reveal his immolation. --- One wild, heart-broken shrick she gave Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, As this poem is in the eight syllable metre, instances of false quantity, though abundant, are not so offensive as in the heroic measure. To what we have already said of its leading features, we may add, that it has a laudable object, its tendency being to inspire an exalted devotion to liberty and patriotism. There is truth as well as eloquence in the following apostrophe. Rebellion ! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd Has sunk beneath that withering name, If the poet's indignation against treachery have breathed itself out in too harsh an anathema against traitors, we can easily pardon his warmth. Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, Whose treason, like a deadly blight, And blasts them in their hour of might! With joys, that vanish while he sips, And, when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven, and feeling hell! The description of Hinda is in a more pleasing strain. Beautiful are the maids that glide, On summer-eves, through Yemen's dales, Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower, Light as the angel shapes that bless Religion's soften'd glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, 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! We must confess we cannot think Mr. Moore's religious notions exactly orthodox; neither do we approve of including a salacious temperament in the enumeration of female charms. Yet there is scarcely a case in the whole volume where he has attempted to delineate a beautiful woman in which he has not distinctly presented this idea. We find a further illustration of Mr. Moore's creed, in the following passage. Her hands were clasp'd-her eyes upturn'd,' Which show'd-though wandering earthward now, Her spirit's home was in the skies. Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still! "Go where we will, this hand in thine, |