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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 of the Plague," which indeed Mr Moore himself notices, with high commendation of the corresponding passage. A coincidence so striking, and yet so entirely accidental, may serve to shew the folly of those critics who are for ever raising the cry of plagiarism, and who cannot conceive the souls of two poets affected by the breath of the same inspiration.—But even this holy sigh fails to win admittance to the Peri, who, once more winging her way to the Holy Land, floats through the dying sunshine that bathes Mount Lebanon, and circling the ruins of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec, alights beneath the shadow of its ruined columns. Here she sees a beautiful child at play among the rosy wild-flowers, while a man of a fierce and savage aspect dismounts from his steed, in all the perturbation of guilt and remorse.
"Yet tranquil now, that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit) looked, and lay
Watching the rosy infant's play:—
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burned all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But, hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,
From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh, 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that Child—
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh
For glories past, and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched man,
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,—
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
"There was a time," he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones—"thou blessed child!
When young and haply pure as thou,
I looked and prayed like thee—but now—"
He hung his head—each nobler aim,
And hope, and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came
Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept!"
The Peri carries a tear of penitence to Paradise the gates unfold and the angel welcomes her into eternal bliss.
We think this poem, on the whole, the most beautiful and characteristic of all Mr Moore's compositions. Though wild and fanciful, it everywhere makes an appeal to the heart; and we can allow the flight of a Peri to be described with more gorgeous and brilliant colouring, than the real or imaginary travels of an ordinary mortal. Accordingly, the ornamental and descriptive parts, though long and protracted, never weary, and we willingly resign ourselves up to a delightful dream. It might not perhaps have been in Mr Moore's power to have opened the gate of the dungeon-soul of guilt, and brought into our ears all the terrible sounds that disturb its haunted darkness. He has followed a safer course, and confined himself rather to the outward signs of remorse than its inward agonies. There is therefore nothing in this tale that can entitle Mr Moore to be classed with those Poets who have penetrated into the deepest and darkest recesses of the soul; but there is much in it to render him worthy of taking his place among the best of those whose genius has breathed a new beauty over innocence and virtue.
We shall give our readers an account, in our next Number, of the two remaining poems, the "Fire Worshippers," and the "Light of the Haram." We may perhaps then speak a little more at length of Mr Moore's faults, which we indistinctly feel to be numerous, and blended, we fear incurably, with his merits. But we wished, at present, to give those of our readers who have not seen the volume an idea of its general character; and this, we hope, we have done more effectually by the means now pursued, than if we had indulged ourselves in minute and captious criticism.