which civilization has opened to them. What a misfortune would it have been to literature, had Milton imposed on himself the task of writing another Æneid! Tasso, who with infinite taste subjected the muse of Christian Europe to the forms of ancient poetry, never soared to a loftier height than in painting the manners of his own age; and we cannot but confess, that Voltaire was more true to nature, when he made himself the rival of Ariosto, than when, full of the recollection of his college studies, he traced his Henry IV. on the model of the pious Eneas. Lord Byron accused himself, as of a crime, of being one of those who have raised Chinese pagodas beside Greek temples, the only genuine models of art. The classic architecture of St. Paul's did not render me indifferent to the beauties of Westminster Abbey, or even the Pavilion at Brighton. In like manner I derived pleasure from reading Thalaba after Joan of Arc, and The Curse of Kehama after Madoc or Roderick. Since Southey was fated to write five epic poems, I am glad he did not produce five Joans of Arc, or five Thalabas.

"Si Peau d'âne m'etait conté,

J'y prendrais un plaisir extrême,"

says La Fontaine, who read Peau d'âne and Baruch with equal pleasure. But if judged by the rules of our French theory of poetry, Thalaba is no more an epic poem than Peau d'âne. The versification presents a whimsical mixture of every kind of metre,

from lines of fourteen feet, to lines consisting of a single monosyllable, and the irregular stanzas do not succeed each other regularly, as in the ode or the dithyrambic. This variegated versification, if I may so express myself, is favourable to every variety of style, and after a lyric flight the poet descends to the modest level of a narrator. After a page full of unmeaning and artificially condensed words, there comes a brilliant description, an energetic apostrophe, or, by an unexpected transition, the chaste and solemn graces of genuine epic composition.

The poem opens with the following sweet pic

ture:

"How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, no little cloud
Breaks the whole serene of heaven;
In full-orbed glory the majestic moon

Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray

The desert circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!"

The silence is interrupted by the wandering footsteps of a woman, who is flying with her son over the desarts of Arabia, and the boy is soon left crying in the wilderness, over the lifeless remains of his mother. This child is Thalaba, who by a miracle has escaped from a murderer who has sacrificed his father, an old Arab, named Hodeisa, and all his race. The murderer is the

agent of a party of magicians, who dwell in the caverns of Domdaniel, at the bottom of the ocean, and who have been informed that their destroyer is to spring up from the race of Hodeisa. The conflicts between Thalaba and these magicians form the subject of the poem, and at length the young hero penetrates into the retreat of his enemies, and, like another Samson, perishes along with them beneath the ruins of their cavern.

Such a story, of course, requires to be supported by all sorts of poetic accessories, and it is but rendering justice to Mr. Southey to say, that he has ably availed himself of the rich colouring of oriental imagery, scenery, and costume. He has, at the same time, produced the most varied contrasts, in the incidents and episodes. Along with the luxuriant imagery, and the continued succession of extraordinary adventures which the poem presents, the author has interwoven pathetic descriptions of the simple scenes of his hero's childhood. Thalaba is picked up by a good old Arab, who conveys him to his patriarchal tent, where he brings him up along with his daughter. The chaste felicity of our first parents is not more interesting than the affection of these two children of the desart. What Voltaire said of love, as it is painted by Milton, is perfectly applicable to Southey's Thalaba: in other poems it is a weakness, but in this it is a virtue. The angelic purity of Oneiza, and her cruel destiny, have inspired the poet with some of his most tender and brilliant

passages. Thalaba delivers his mistress from the profane paradise of Aloadin, and prevails on her to marry him before the accomplishment of his mission. She reluctantly consents. The nuptial ceremonies are minutely described, hymns of joy are sung, and the book ends with these verses :

"And now the marriage feast is spread,
And from the finished banquet now
The wedding guests are gone.

Who comes from the bridal chamber?
It is Azrael, the angel of death."

The next book opens with Thalaba mourning over the tomb of Oneiza, exposed to the fury of the tempest. There he is met by the father of his bride, and the shade of Oneiza rises up to console him, and encourage him to proceed on his holy enterprise. He sets out on his lonely way, and on the first night of his wandering, he is hospitably received by a venerable dervise. As they are sitting at their humble repast, a nuptial procession passes by with dance and song. The old dervise pronounces a blessing on the joyous party, but Thalaba looked on, " and breathed a low, deep groan, and hid his face."

The little episode of Laila is, also, extremely pleasing. Amidst a desart of snow, a sudden light breaks upon the eyes of Thalaba. He advances, and discovers that this light proceeds from

"A little lowly dwelling-place
Amid a garden, whose delightful air
Felt mild and fragrant, as the evening wind
Passing in summer o'er the coffee-groves
Of Yemen, and its blessed bowers of balm.
A fount of fire that in the centre play'd,
Rolled all around its wond'rous rivulets,
And fed the garden with the heat of life."

He enters and finds a damsel sleeping, who afterwards informs him, that she was placed there by her father, a magician, who "saw a danger in her horoscope," and hid her in that solitude. He has also constructed a guardian of the garden, which is a brazen figure, grasping a thunderbolt. As soon as Thalaba appears,

"The charmed image knew Hodeirah's son,
And hurled the lightning at the dreaded foe."

He is saved by means of an enchanted ring which he has in his possession. But the old magician appears, and tells Thalaba, that he must either sacrifice the innocent girl or perish himself. Laila throws her arms round her father's neck. Her face is turned to Thalaba. The wind agitating the fiery fountain casts a broad light over her features; her eyes rolling with horror watch every movement of Thalaba. He refuses to stain his hands in the blood of innocence. The magi cian exulting, draws his dagger. All is accomplished. Laila, who rushes between them to save the youth, receives the fatal blow. She falls, and