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powers and qualifications are exhibited in their utmost perfection, throughout the progress of a wild and romantic tale, in which we are hurried on from one danger to another,—from peril to peril,—from adventure to adventure,—from hope into sudden despair,—from the exaltation of joy into the prostration of misery,—from all the bright delusions and visionary delights of love dreaming on the bosom of happiness, into the black, real, and substantial horrors of irremediable desolation,—from youth and enjoyment, untamed and aspiring, into anguish, destiny, and death.

Indeed, to us the great excellence of this poem is in the strength of attachment,—the illimitable power of passion,—displayed in the character and conduct of Hinda and Hafed,—feelings different in their object, in minds so differently constituted as theirs, but equal in the degree of their intensity. From the first moment that we behold Hinda, we behold her innocent, pure, and spotless; but her heart, her soul, her senses, her fancy, and her imagination, all occupied with one glorious and delightful vision that forever haunts, disturbs, and blesses,—which has, in spite of herself, overcome and subdued, what was formerly the ruling emotion of her nature, filial affection,—and which at last shakes the foundation even of the religious faith in which she had been brought up from a child, and forces her to love, admire, and believe that creed, of which there had been instilled into her mind the bitterest abhorrence,—till she sees nothing on earth or in heaven but in relation to her devoted hero. Hafed, on the other hand, has had all the energies of his soul roused by the noblest objects, and the imperious demand of the highest duties, before he has seen the divine countenance of Hinda. His soul is already filled with a patriotism which feels that it cannot restore the liberties of his country, though it may still avenge their destruction,—with a piety that cannot keep unextinguished the fires sacred to its God, but hopes to preserve the shrine on which they burn unpolluted by profane hands, and finally to perish an immolation in the holy element. He feels that with him any love must be a folly, a madness, a crime; but above all, love to the daughter of the enemy of his country, his religion, and his God. Yet the divine inspiration, breathed from innocence and beauty, has mingled with his existence; and though there can be no union on earth between them, he wildly cherishes and clings to her image,—shews his devotion, his love, and his gratitude, even after the fatal horn has sounded unto death,—and abandons her in that extremity, only because he must not abandon the holy cause of liberty and truth.

And here we may remark, that our full and perfect sympathy goes with the illustrious Gheber, both in the objects to which he is devoted, and the feelings with which that devotion is displayed. His is no cause of doubtful right—of equivocal justice. He is not a rebel dignified with the name of patriot, nor a wild enthusiast fighting in support of an absurd or wicked faith. He is the last of a host of heroes, who perish in defence of their country's independence;—the last of an enlightened priesthood, we may say, who wished to preserve the sanctity of their own lofty persuasion against "a creed of lust, and hate, and crime." The feelings, therefore, which he acts upon are universal, and free from all party taint,—a vice which, we cannot help thinking, infects several of Mr Moore's shorter poems, and mars their eminent beauty. Perhaps there are a few passages of general declamation, even in this poem, coloured by what some may think party rather than natural feelings; but they are of rare occurrence, and may easily be forgiven to a poet who belongs to a country where pride has long struggled with oppression,—where religion has been given as a reason against the diffusion of political privileges,—and where valour guards liberties which the brave are not permitted to enjoy.

Another great beauty in the conduct of this poem is the calm air of grandeur which invests, from first to last, the principal agent,—the utter hopelessness of ultimate success, yet the unshaken resolution of death, and the unpalpitating principle of a righteous vengeance. From the beginning we seem to know that Hafed and his Ghebers must die,—yet the certainty of their death makes us feel a deeper interest in their life: they move for ever before us, like men under doom;