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 Veil'd 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!
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?
She enters-Holy Alla! what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mixed with the flame of brands
That round lay burning, dropped from lifeless hands,
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

*"This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia, nesser cano, which signifies the note of the eagle."—Note of Bruce's editor.

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 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 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 begin;
That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced
Even monstrous man, is—after God's own taste;
And that-but see!-ere I have half-way said
My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls are fled.
Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,
If Eblis loves you half so well as I.—

Ha, my young bride!-'tis well-take thou thy seat;
Nay, come-no shuddering-didst thou never meet
The Dead before?-they graced our wedding, sweet,
And these my guests to-night have brimmed so true
Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too.
But-how is this?-all empty? all drunk up?
Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,
Young bride, yet stay-one precious drop remains
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 singular Poem abounds in striking, though somewhat extravagant, situations, incidents, and characters. There is something very fine in the Vision of the Sil

* "The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call the Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying, they are wild as the Demon of the Waste." Elphinstone's Caubul.

ver 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 extravagances. 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 enthusiasm; and every realm has had its Prophets and Impostors, its conquerors and Kings. The display, indeed, of successful imposture in politics 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 strongest passions, and has most lamentably overthrown, ruined, and degraded, 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 that character is attributed, we mean the Black Dwarf. He comes deformed 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 cha

racters 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 powers of genius was required to dignify and impart a character of sublimity to the 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 failure.

Of Azim we could say much, if it were not that the situations in which he is placed so strongly reminds 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
Of Life within, like music flowing,
And caught the light upon her wings,
Through the half-open portal glowing,
She wept, to think her recreant race

Should e're have lost that glorious place."

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
The gift into his radiant hand,

'Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
Who died thus for their native land.

But see,-alas!—the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not;-holier far

Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,

That opes the gates of heav'n for thee!' "

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 Maris. This beautiful scene is devastated by the plague, and "Just then, beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 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;
One who, in life, where'er he moved,
Drew after him the hearts of many;
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,

Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek!
'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
He knew his own betrothed bride;
She, who would rather die with him,
Than live to gain the world beside!—
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to her's she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,

In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses."

The lovers die in each others arms, and the Peri carries up to paradise the farewell sigh breathed by the devoted maid. The reader of this part of the poem will not fail to observe a most striking similarity in the description of the death of these lovers, to the death of Frankfort and Magdalene, in Mr. Wilson's City