"So gently back to its first innocence, "That I would sooner stop th' unchained dove "When swift returning to its home of love, "And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, "Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine !" A choir of dancing girls succeed.These in vain try the power of their blandishments. Azim remains invincible. But to escape from scenes, on which he cannot look with indifference, he retreats to the casement, through which the moon sheds her mild rays, and in gazing on the sleeping landscape, falls into a train of sombre contemplations. The image of Zelica, and the painful remembrance of past joys, take possession of his soul. In this pensive mood he turns,

-and sees a female form, close veil'd, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd, Against a pillar near; not glittering o'er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress, Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness, Of friends or kindred, dead, or far away; And such as Zelica had on that day He left her--when, with heart too full to speak, He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. We should do injustice to our readers, as well as to our author, were we to attempt to give a scene, of such surpassing interest, in any other than his own powerful language.

A strange emotion stirs within him-more Than mere compassion ever wak'd before; Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life's last energy. But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the ground; Her veil falls off--her faint hands clasp his knees, "Tis she herself! 'tis Zelica he sees!

But, ah, so pale, so chang'd, none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover The once ador'd divinity! e'en he

Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz'd Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz'd, Ere he could think she was indeed his own, Own darling maid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both; Who, e'en when grief was heaviest-when loth He left her for the wars-in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower, When darkness bring its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about! "Look up, my Zelica-one moment show "Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know "Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone. "But there, at least, shines as it ever shone. "Come, look upon thy Azim--one dear glance, "Like those of old, were heav'n! whatever chance

"Hath brought thee here, oh! 'twas a blessed

one!

"I should have singled out thee, only thee, "From the whole world's collected treasury, "To have thee here-to hang thus fondly o'er My own best, purest Zelica once more!"

It was, indeed, the touch of those lov'd lips Upon her eyes that chas'd their short eclipse, And, gradual as the snow, at heaven's breath, Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, Gazing on his; not as they late had been, Her lids unclos'd, and the bright eyes were seen Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene, As if to lie, e'en for that tranced minute, So near his heart, had consolation in it! And thus to wake in his belov'd caress Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. But, when she heard him call her good and pure, Oh 'twas too much-too dreadful to endure! Shuddering she broke away from his embrace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven A heart of very marble, "pure! oh Heaven."

That tone-those looks so chang'd-the with-
ering blight,

That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light-
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place, that bright unholy place,
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves;
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
No, no-he sees it all, plain as the brand
As death itself; it needs not to be told-
Of burning shame can mark-whate'er the hand,
That could from heav'n and him such brightness

sever,

'Tis done-to heav'n and him she's lost for ever.
It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,
The lingering lasting misery of years
Could match that minute's anguish; all the worst
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst
Broke o'er his soul, and with one crash of fate,
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate!

"Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he toss'd His desperate hand tow'rds heav'n-" though I am lost, "Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me

fall,

"I know it hath-yet, yet believe at least, "That every spark of reason's light must be "Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee!

"They told me thou wert dead-why, Azim, why "Did we not, both of us, that instant die. "When we were parted? oh! could'st thou but know

"With what a deep devotedness of wo "I wept thy absence, o'er and o'er again "Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,

"And memory, like a drop that night and day, "Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away! "Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, "My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert io come, "And, all the long, long night of hope and fear, "Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear; "Oh God! thou would'st not wonder that, at last, "When every hope was all at once o'ercast, "When I heard frightful voices round me say

"Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear"Told me such things-oh! with such devilish art,

"As would have ruin'd e'en a holier heart"Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, "Where bless'd at length, if I but serv'd him here,

"I should for ever live in thy dear sight, "And drink from those pure eyes eternal light! Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be, "To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! Thou weep'st for me-do, weep-oh! that I durst,

66

"Kiss off that tear! but no-these lips are curst, "They must not touch thee; one divine caress, "One blessed moment of forgetfulness "I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, "Shrin'd in my soul's deep memory till I die! "The last of joy's last relics here below, "The one sweet drop, in all this waste of "My heart has treasur'd from affection's spring, "To soothe and cool its deadly withering! "But thou-yes, thou must go-for ever go! "This place is not for thee--for thee! oh no, "Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur'd brain

46

wo,

Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! Enough, that Guilt reigns here--that hearts, once good,

"Now tainted, chill'd and broken, are his food. Enough, that we are parted-that there rolls "A flood of headlong fate between our souls, "Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee "As hell from heav'n to all eternity!"

Zelica! Zelica!" the youth exclaim'd, In all the tortures of a mind inflam'd Almost to madness--" by that sacred Heaven, "Where yet, if pray'rs can move, thou❜lt be forgiven,

"As thou art here-here, in this writhing heart, All sinful wild and ruin'd as thou art! "By the remembrance of our once pure love, Which, like a church-yard light, still berns

above

"The grave of our lost souls-which guilt in thee "Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me! "I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence"If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, Fly with me from this place

"With thee! oh bliss, ""Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. "What! take the lost one with thee? let her rove "By thy dear side, as in those days of love, "When we were both so happy, both so pure-"Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure "For the sunk heart, 'tis this--day after day "To be the blest companion of thy way;"To hear thy angel eloquence-to see "Those virtuous eyes for ever turn'd on me; "And in their light re-chasten'd silently, "Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, "Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! "And thou wilt pray for me--I know thou wilt "At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt "Come heaviest o'er the heart, thouit lift thine

66

At this dreadful voice, and still more dreadful recollection, Zelica is chilled in a moment to the heart. She implores Azim to provide for his safety, whilst she resigns herself to her uncontrollable destiny, and bursting from his embrace, darts into the recesses of the Haram.

tain them.

The third Canto opens with the note of warlike preparation. The Khalif approaches with an army, to repress the imThe pious assumptions of Mokanna. Prophet is not slow in preparing to susA battle ensues, and at the instant that fortune is inclining towards the side of the impostor, Azim dashes into the field and turns the scale against him. Mokanna flies to the fortress of Neksheb, and of all his Haram, takes with him only the faded Zelica, but

Not for love-the deepest Damn'd must be Touch'd with heav'n's glory, ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity! But no, she is his victim: there lie all Her charms for him--charms that can never pall, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. To work an angel's ruin, to behold As white a page as Virtue e'er enroll'd Blacken beneath his touch, into a scroll Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul— This is his triumph; this is the joy accurst, That ranks him among demons all but first! Blighted and lost, a glory in his This gives the victim, that before him lies

eyes, A light like that with which hell-fire illumes, The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!

Here he awaits the attack of the conqueror, and continues to practise his sorceries in making mock moons rise out of a well. By this means, he keeps alive the faith and hopes of his followers, notwithstanding they are besieged by innumerable foes, and are reduced to the last extremity. But finding, at length, that he must succumb to fate, he determines to make a memorable exit. He, accordingly, reproaches his comrades for their little faith, and invites them to a banquet, at which he promises to reveal to them the ineffable glories of his brow! At the close of this banquet, Zelica is summoned to appear by a menial, who turns black in the face and falls dead as he is delivering his message.

She enters; Holy Alla, what a sight
Was there before her! By the glimmering light
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands
That round lay burning, dropp'd from lifeless
hands,

She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread,
Rich censers breathing, garlands overhead,
The urns, the cups, from which they late had
quaff'd,

All gold and gems, but-what had been the draught?

Oh! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, With their swoll'n heads sunk blackening on their breasts,

Or looking pale to heav'n with glassy glare,
As if they sought, but saw no mercy there;
As if they felt, though poison rack'd 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 gasp'd; but as they died,
Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' last
strain,

And clench'd 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 rais'd,
Show'd them, as in death's agony they gaz'd,
Not the long promis'd light, the brow, whose
beaming

Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,
But features horribler than Hell e'er trac'd
On its own brood: no Demon of the Waste,
No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the
light

Of the bless'd 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
Štar;

"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 ye feel within,
"Is but the trance, with which heav'n's joys be-
gin;

That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac'd "E'en monstrous man, is-after God's own taste, "And that--but see! ere I have half-way said My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls

66

are fled.

"So shall my banner, through long ages, be "The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy; "Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name, "And, though I die, my Spirit, still the same, "Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, "And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life! "But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall

"Why, let it shake-thus I can brave them all. "No trace of me shall greet them when they

come,

"And I can trust thy faith, for-thon'lt be dumb. "Now, mark how readily a wretch like me, "In one bold plunge, commences Deity!"

He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said

Quick clos'd the burning waters o'er his head,,
And Zelica was left-within the ring
Of those wide walls the only living thing;

The beleaguerers now effect a breach in the wall, and as they are pausing, apprehensive of some stratagem from the solitude and silence that reign within, Zelica appears wrapt in the Silver Veil. At the sight of this hateful badge, Azim springs forward, and Zelica throws herself upon his spear, happy in this disguise, to have obtained death at his hand.

Time fleeted-years on years had pass'd away, And few of those who, on that mournful day, Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, Were living still-when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift Amou's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that long grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down-and, though the

shade

Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,
That brighten'd even Death-like the last streak

Of intense glory on the horizon's brim,
When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim,
His soul had seen a vision while he slept
She, for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept;
So many years, had come to him, all diest
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest!
For this the old man breath'd his thanks and died.
And there upon the banks of that lov'd tide,
He and his Zelica sleep side by side.

We have now despatched the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.' But before we take up the three remaining poems in this volume, we will offer a few remarks on the one just concluded. In the very cursory notice of Lalla Rookh in our last number, we observed of the poems which it contains, that they present great and glaring faults, and fewer, but not less obvious beauties.' The extracts which we have already made afford a fair proportion of both. All the defects of the story are justly chargeable upon Mr. Moore, since he had no restriction in his range, through the records of fact, or the fields of fancy. It was his own folly that prompted him to rake up the foul deeds of a detestable monster, from the obscurity to which they had been deservedly consigned. Nor can we discover for what object he has dragged this 'misbegotten knave' into the light of day. He does not appear to intend the inculcation of any moral lesson, and surely, he cannot believe that a picture, of such diabolical depravity and bug-bear deformity, will awaken in the beholder any pleasurable emotion. We have never heard before of such an instance of gratuitous malignity, as is imputed to Al Mokann. Born in an humble station of life, personal beauty was in no degree essential to enable him fully to participate in all its enjoyments. The accidents of war, if they had diminished his original comeliness, had marked him with honourable scars, which a true soldier would never exchange for the limbs or features of an Apollo. He had nothing with which to reproach fortune. He lived in her smiles to the very close of his career. In the lineage and circumstances of Richard the Third, we find equally a motive for his ambition and his envy. The turbulence of the times had accustomed men to regard the crown as a prize, which it was lawful to covet, and for which it might become politic to contend. The chivalrous spirit of the age rendered personal accomplishments, and the address and prowess, that qualified for the ball and the tournament, not merely feathers in the cap of youth,' but indispensable requisites to popularity and power. Richard could not enter these lists. When we hear him VOL. I. NO. v.

And therefore—since I cannot be a lover,
To entertain these fair well spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain.'

It was injuries, which none but a feeling heart would have treasured up, that 'curdled the milk of human kindness,' in the breast of Bethlem Gabor. The little misanthropical Dwarf, in the 'Tales of my Landlord,' did not imbibe his implacable hatred of mankind from the survey of his own dimensions. His moroseness and distrust were but the retraction of the bruised fibres. of a sympathy, that would have encircled his species with its tendrils. But in the odious impostor of Khorassan, we read only the naked lineaments of a fiend. It is in vain to say that Mr. Moore is sufficiently fortified by history. If this were the case, it would not extenuate the radical absurdity of rendering such a demon, if not the hero, at least the most prominent character in his piece. No man, in his senses, would think of making the enormities of Nero, Caligula, or Heliogabalus, the subject of an epopee. Besides, Mr. Moore was under no obligation to found his plot on any historical incident. It is, to be sure, required that an epic should relate to known characters and events, but these metrical romances do not come under that honourable denomination. They are a very humble kind of compositions-in our estimation, much below the novel both in dignity and utility, and equally licensed to indulge in fiction. Novels, if not a new class of works of fancy, are a wonderful improvement upon the ancient romances. These last were, though not absolutely the invention, the chief ornament of the dark ages, and appeared first in verse. The metrical romances preceded even the legends of Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table, and of Charlemagne and his Paladins. The Scandinavian nations had their scalds, the British their bards, and the French their troubadours and trouveurs. Their legerdary rhymes were afterwards reduced to prose, and formed the famous romans, which Cervantes so liberally corsigned to the flames. It were a pleasant speculation to imagine the fate of most of the

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