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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 remind 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'er 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 Mæris. 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."