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Review.—Lalla Rookh. QJune
glory and triumph of human nature, display themselves in the concentration of patriotism or devotion, then the genius of Moore expands and kindles, and his strains are nobly and divinely lyrical. If Burns surpass him in simplicity and pathos—as certainly does he surpass Burns in richness of fancy—in variety of illustration—in beauty of language—in melody of verse—and above all, in that polished unity, and completeness of thought and expression, so essential in all lyrical composition, and more particularly so in songs, which, being short, are necessarily disfigured by the smallest violation of language, the smallest dimness, weakness, or confusion in the thought, image, sentiment, or passion.
Entertaining the opinion which we have now imperfectly expressed of Mr Moore's poetical character, we opened Lalla Rookh with confident expectations of rinding beauty in every page; and we have not been disappointed. He has, by accurate and extensive reading, imbued his mind with so familiar a knowledge of eastern scenery—that we feel as if we were reading the poetry of one of the children of the Sun. No European image ever breaks or steals in to destroy the illusion—every tone, and hue, and form, is purely and intensely Asiatic—and the language, faces, forms, dresses, mein, sentiments, passions, actions, and characters of the different agents, are all congenial with the flowery earth they inhabit, and the burning sky that glows over their heads. That proneness to excessive ornament, which seldom allows Mr Moore to be perfectly simple and natural—that blending of fanciful and transient feelings, with bursts of real passion—that almost bacchanalian rapture with which he revels, amid the beauties of external nature, till his senses seem lost in a vague and indefinite enjoyment, that capricious and wayward ambition which often urges him to make his advances to our hearts, rather by the sinuous and blooming bye-ways and lanes of the fancy, than by the magnificent and royal road of the imagination—that fondness for the delineation of female beauty and power, which often approaches to extravagancy and idolatry, but at the same time, is rarely unaccompanied by a most fascinating tenderness—in short, all the peculiarities of his genius adapt him for the composition of an Oriental Tale, in which we are prepared to meet with, and to enjoy, a certain lawless luxuriance of imagery, and to tolerate a certain rhapsodical wildness of sentiment and passion.
There is considerable elegance, grace, and ingenuity, in the contrivance, by which the four Poems that compose the volume are introduced to the reader. They are supposed to be recited by a young poet, to enliven the evening hours of Lalla Rookh, daughter of the Emperor of Delhi, who is proceeding in great state and magnificence to Bucharia to meet her destined husband, the monarch of that kingdom. Of course, the princess and the poet fall desperately in love with each other—and Lalla looks forward with despair to her interview with her intended husband. But perhaps most novel readers will be prepared for the denouement better than the simple-minded Lalla Rookh, and will not, like her, be startled to find, that Feramorz the poet, and Aliris the king, are one and the same personage. All that relates to Lalla Rookh and her royal and poetical lover, is in prose—but prose of so flowery a kind, that it yields no relief to the mind, if worn out or wearied by the poetry. Neither do we think Fadladeen, that old musty Mahomedan critic, in any way amusing—though he sometimes hits upon objections to the poetry of Feramorz, which it might not be very easy to answer. Can it be, that a man of genius like Mr Moore is afraid of criticism, and seeks to disarm it by anticipation? But let us turn to the poetry.
The first poem is entitled, "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan."[1] It opens thus:
"In that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands lie shines upon,
Where all die loveliest children of his beam,
Flowrets and fruits blush over every stream,
And, fairest of all streams, the Murga rove*
Among Merou's[2] bright palaces and groves;—
There, on that throne, to which the blind belief
Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-chief,
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung
The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung