The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty !"'-pp. 206, 207. The song then returns to Hinda Whose life, as free from thought as sin, The Persian lily shines and towers, Has fall'n upon her golden flowers. Far other feelings Love has brought Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness," &c. Not the pure, open, prosp'rous Love, In friendship's smile, and home's caress, 'And does the long-left home she seeks And the gay, gleaming fishes count, Shooting around their jasper fountHer little garden mosque to see, And once again, at ev'ning hour, In her own sweet acacia bower.- groves, As a pale Angel of the Grave."-pp. 227, 228. Her vessel is first assailed by a violent tempest, and, in the height of its fury, by a hostile bark; and her senses are extinguished with terror in the midst of the double conflict. At last, both are appeased—and her recollection is slowly restored. The following passage appears to us extremely beautiful and characteristic: "How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone; When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, As if the loveliest plants and trees When the blue waters rise and fall, "Such was the golden hour that broke Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, For awning o'er her head are flung."-p. 233-236. She soon discovers, in short, that she is a captive in the hands of the Ghebers! and shrinks with horror, when she finds that she is to be carried to their rocky citadel, and to the presence of the terrible Hafed. The galley is rowed by torchlight through frightful rocks and foaming tides, into a black abyss of the promontory, where her eyes are bandaged and she is borne up a long and rugged ascent, till at last she is desired to look up, and receive her doom from the formidable chieftain. Before she has raised her eyes, the well known voice of her lover pronounces her name; and she finds herself alone in the arms of her adoring Hafed! The first emotion is ecstasy. But the recollection of her father's vow and means of vengeance comes like a thundercloud on her joy-she tells her lover of the treachery by which he has been sacrificed; and urges him, with passionate eagerness, to fly with her to some place of safety. "Hafed, my own beloved Lord,' She kneeling cries- first, last ador'd! Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly- On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, With ev'ry deep-heav'd sob that came. High burst in air the fun' ral flames, pp. 283, 284. Hafed is more shocked with the treachery to which he is sacrificed than with the fate to which it consigns him:-One moment he gives up to softness and pity-assures Hinda, with compassionate equivocation, that they shall soon meet on some more peaceful shore -places her sadly in a litter, and sees her borne down the steep to the galley she had lately quitted, and to which she still expects This sad story is closed by a sort of choral that he is to follow her. He then assembles dirge, of great elegance and beauty, of which his brave and devoted companions-warns we can only afford to give the first stanza. them of the fate that is approaching and exhorts them to meet the host of the invaders" in the ravine, and sell their lives dearly to their steel. After a fierce, and somewhat too sanguinary combat, the Ghebers are at last borne down by numbers; and Hafed finds himself left alone, with one brave associate, mortally wounded like himself. They make a desperate effort to reach and die beside the consecrated fire which burns for ever on the summit of the cliff. "The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore- Now Hafed sees the Fire divine— And must I leave thee with'ring here, 'The sport of every ruffian's tread, The mark for every coward's spear? And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!" pp. 278, 279. The unfortunate Hinda, whose galley had been detained close under the cliff by the noise of the first onset, had heard with agony the sounds which marked the progress and catastrophe of the fight, and is at last a spectatress of the lofty fate of her lover. "But see what moves upon the height? What bodes its solitary glare? Shrin'd in its own grand element ! No Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea) pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee." p. 284. The general tone of this poem is certainly too much strained. It is overwrought throughout, and is too entirely made up of agonies and raptures ;-but, in spite of all this, it is a work of great genius and beauty; and not only delights the fancy by its general brilliancy and spirit, but moves all the tender and noble feelings with a deep and powerful agitation. The last piece, entitled "The Light of the Haram," is the gayest of the whole; and is of a very slender fabric as to fable or invention. In truth, it has scarcely any story at all; but is made up almost entirely of beautiful songs and descriptions. During the summer months, when the court is resident in the Vale of Cashmere, there is, it seems, a sort of oriental carnival, called the Feast of Roses, during which every body is bound to be happy and in good humour. At this critical period, the Emperor Selim had unfortunately a little love-quarrel with his favourite Sultana Nourmahal,-which signifies, it seems, the Light of the Haram. The lady is rather unhappy while the sullen fit is on her; and applies to a sort of enchantress, who invokes a musical spirit to teach her an irresistible song, which she sings in a mask to the offended monarch; and when his heart is subdued by its sweetness, throws off her mask, and springs with fonder welcome than ever into his repentant arms. The whole piece is written in breathed nothing but intoxicating gas during a kind of rapture,-as if the author had its composition. It is accordingly quite filled with lively images and splendid expressions, and all sorts of beauties,-except those of reserve or simplicity. We must give a few specimens, to revive the spirits of our readers after the tragic catastrophe of Hafed; and we may begin with this portion of the description of the Happy Valley. "Oh! to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines; Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes POETRY. When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, p. 296. The character of Nourmahal's beauty is much in the same taste: though the diction is rather more loose and careless. There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summers day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, dreams! wing 'Then come! thy Arab maid will be embodies, reminded the offended monarch of "The mask is off-the charm is wrought!- When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face. p. 334. Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took enough, of this book, to let our readers unWe have now said enough, and shown of it. Its great fault certainly is its excessive [spring-derstand both what it is, and what we think copiousness of its imagery-the sweetness and finery, and its great charm the inexhaustible ease of its diction-and the beauty of the obcerned. Its finery, it should also be observed, jects and sentiments with which it is condisguises poverty or meanness-but the exis not the vulgar ostentation which so often travagance of excessive wealth. We have said this, however, we believe before-and suspect we have little more to say. From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in We can give but a little morsel of the enchanting Song of the Spirit of Music. "For mine is the lay that lightly floats, All poets, who really love poetry, and live in a poetical age, are great imitators; and the character of their writings may often be as correctly ascertained by observing whom they imitate and whom they abstain from imitating, as from any thing else. Mr. Moore, in the volume before us, reminds us oftener of Mr. Southey and Lord Byron, than of any other of his contemporaries. The resemblance is sometimes to the Roderick of ly to his Kehama. This may be partly owing the first-mentioned author, but most frequentto the nature of the subject; but, in many passages, the coincidence seems to be more radical-and to indicate a considerable conformity, in taste and habits of conception. Nourmahal herself, however, in her Arabian Mr. Southey's tone, indeed, is more assumdisguise, sings a still more prevailing ditty-ing, his manner more solemn, and his diction of which we can only insert a few stanzas. "Fly to the desert, fly with me! pp. 318, 319. Our Arab tents are rude for thee; But oh! the choice what heart can doubt 'Our sands are bare; but down their slope a weaker. Mr. Moore is more lively-his figures and images come more thickly; and his language is at once more familiar, and more strengthened with points and antitheses. In other respects, the descriptive passages in Kehama bear a remarkable affinity to many in the work before us-in the brightness of the colouring, and the amplitude and beauty of the details. It is in his descriptions of love, and of female loveliness, that there is the strongest resemblance to Lord Byron-at least to the larger poems of that noble author. In the powerful and condensed expression of strong emotion, Mr. Moore seems to us rather to have imitated the tone of his Lordship's smaller pieces-but imitated them as only an original genius could imitate-as Lord Byron himself may be said, in his later pieces, to have imitated those of an earlier date. There is less to remind us of Scott than we can very well account for, when we consider the great range and variety of that most fascinating and powerful writer; and we must say, that if Mr. Moore could bring the resemblance a little closer, and exchange a portion of his superfluous images and ecstasies for an equivalent share of Mr. Scott's gift of interesting and delighting us with pictures of familiar nature, and of the spirit and energy which never rises to extravagance, we think he would be a gainer by the exchange. To Mr. Crabbe there is no resemblance at all; and we only mention his name to observe, that he and Mr. Moore seem to be the antipodies of our present poetical sphere; and to occupy the extreme points of refinement and homeliness that can be said to fall within the legitimate dominion of poetry. They could not meet in the middle, we are aware, without changing their nature, and losing their specific character; but each might approach a few degrees, we think, with great mutual advantage. The outposts of all empires are posts of peril:-though we do not dispute that there is great honour in maintaining them with success. There is one other topic upon which we are not quite sure we should say any thing. On a former occasion, we reproved Mr. Moore, perhaps with unnecessary severity, for what appeared to us the licentiousness of some of his youthful productions. We think it a duty to say, that he has long ago redeemed that error; and that in all his latter works that have come under our observation, he appears as the eloquent champion of purity, fidelity, and delicacy, not less than of justice, liberty, and honour. Like most other poets, indeed, he speaks much of beauty and love; and we doubt not that many mature virgins and careful matrons may think his lucubrations on those themes too rapturous and glowing to be safely admitted among the private studies of youth. We really think, however, that there is not much need for such apprehensions: And, at all events, if we look to the moral design and scope of the works themselves, we can see no reason to censure the author. All his favourites, without exception, are dutiful, faithful, and self-denying; and no other example is ever set up for imitation. There is nothing approaching to indelicacy even in his description of the seductions by which they are tried; and they who object to his enchanting pictures of the beauty and pure attachment of the more prominent characters would find fault, we suppose, with the loveliness and the embraces of angels. (November, 1814.) By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The Excursion; being a Portion of the Recluse, a Poem. 4to. pp. 447. London: 1814.* unfortunately not half so visibly as that of his peculiar system. His former poems were THIS will never do! It bears no doubt the stamp of the author's heart and fancy: But I have spoken in many places rather too bitterly and confidently of the faults of Mr. Words worth's poetry: And forgetting that, even on my own view of them, they were but faults of taste, or venial self-partiality, have sometimes visited them, I fear, with an asperity which should be reserved, for objects of Moral reprobation. If I were now to deal with the whole question of his poetical merits, though my judgment might not be substantially different, I hope I should repress the greater parte of these vivacités of expression: And indeed so strong has been my feeling in this way, that, considering how much I have always loved many of the attributes of his Genius, and how entirely I respect his Character, it did at first occur to me whether it was quite fitting that, in my old age and his. I should include in this publication any of those critiques which may have formerly given pain or offence, to him or his admirers. But, when I reflected that the mischief, if there really ever was any, was long ago done, and that I still retain, in substance, the opinions which I should now like to have seen more gently expressed, I felt that to omit all notice of them on the present occasion, might be held to import a retractation which I am as far as possible from intending; or even be represented as a very shabby way of backing out of sentiments which should either be manfully persisted in, or openly renounced, and abandoned as untenable. I finally resolved, therefore, to reprint my review of "The Excursion;" which contains a pretty full view of my griefs and charges against Mr. Wordsworth; set forth too, I believe, in a more temperate strain than most of my other inculpations, and of which I think I may now venture to say farther, that if the faults are unsparingly noted, the beauties are not penuriously or grudgingly allowed; but commended to the admiration of the reader with at least as much heartiness and good-will. But I have also reprinted a short paper on the same author's "White Doe of Rylstone,"-in which there certainly is no praise, or notice of beauties, to set against the very unqualified censures of which it is wholly made up. I have done this, however, not merely because I adhere to these censures, but chiefly because it seemed necessary to bring me fairly to issue with those who may not concur in them. I can easily understand that many whose admiration of the Excursion, or the Lyrical Ballads, rests substantially on the passages which I too should join in admiring, may view with greater indulgence than I can do, the tedious and flat passages with which they are interspersed, and may consequently think my censure of these works a great deal too harsh and uncharitable. Between such persons and me, therefore, there may be no radical difference of opinion, or contrariety as to principles of judgment. But if there be any who actually admire this White Doe of Rylstone, or intended to recommend that system, and to bespeak favour for it by their individual merit; but this, we suspect, must be recommended by the system and can only expect to succeed where it has been previously established. It is longer, weaker, and tamer, than any of Mr. Wordsworth's other productions; with less boldness of originality, and less even of that extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered so prettily, in the Lyrical Ballads, between silliness and pathos. We have imitations of Cowper, and even of Milton here; engrafted on the natural drawl of the Lakers and all diluted into harmony by that profuse and irrepressible wordiness which deluges all the blank verse of this school of poetry, and lubricates and weakens the whole structure of their style. we perceive, is now manifestly hopeless; and we give him up as altogether incurable, and beyond the power of criticism. We cannot indeed altogether omit taking precautions now and then against the spreading of the malady;-but for himself, though we shall watch the progress of his symptoms as a matter of professional curiosity and instruction, we really think it right not to harass him any longer with nauseous remedies,-but rather to throw in cordials and lenitives, and wait in patience for the natural termination of the disorder. In order to justify this desertion of our patient, however, it is proper to state why we despair of the success of a more active practice. A man who has been for twenty years at work on such matter as is now before us, Though it fairly fills four hundred and and who comes complacently forward with a twenty good quarto pages, without note, vig- whole quarto of it, after all the admonitions nette, or any sort of extraneous assistance, it he has received, cannot reasonably be exis stated in the title-with something of an pected to "change his hand, or check his imprudent candour-to be but "a portion" of pride," upon the suggestion of far weightier a larger work; and in the preface, where an monitors than we can pretend to be. Inveteattempt is rather unsuccessfully made to ex-rate habit must now have given a kind of plain the whole design, it is still more rashly disclosed, that it is but "a part of the second part, of a long and laborious work"-which is to consist of three parts! sanctity to the errors of early taste; and the very powers of which we lament the perversion, have probably become incapable of any other application. The very quantity, too, What Mr. Wordsworth's ideas of length are, that he has written, and is at this moment we have no means of accurately judging: But working up for publication upon the old patwe cannot help suspecting that they are libe- tern, makes it almost hopeless to look for any ral, to a degree that will alarm the weakness change of it. All this is so much capital of most modern readers. As far as we can already sunk in the concern; which must be gather from the preface, the entire poem-sacrificed if that be abandoned; and no man or one of them, (for we really are not sure whether there is to be one or two,) is of a biographical nature; and is to contain the history of the author's mind, and of the origin and progress of his poetical powers, up to the period when they were sufficiently matured to qualify him for the great work on which he has been so long employed. Now, the quarto before us contains an account of one of his youthful rambles in the vales of Cumberland, and occupies precisely the period of three days! So that, by the use of a very powerful calculus, some estimate may be formed of the probable extent of the entire biography. This small specimen, however, and the statements with which it is prefaced, have been sufficient to set our minds at rest in one particular. The case of Mr. Wordsworth, Peter Bell the Waggoner, or the Lamentations of Martha Rae, or the Sonnets on the Punishment of Death, there can be no such ambiguity, or means of reconcilement. Now I have been assured not only that there are such persons, but that almost all those who seek to exalt Mr. Wordsworth as the founder of a new school of poetry, consider these as by far his best and most characteristic productions; and would at once reject from their communion any one who did not acknowledge in them the traces of a high inspiration. Now I wish it to be understood, that when I speak with general intolerance or impatience of the school of Mr. Wordsworth, it is to the school holding these tenets, and applying these tests, that I refer: and I really do not see how I could better explain the grounds of my dissent from their doctrines, than by republishing my remarks on this "White Doe." likes to give up for lost the time and talent and labour which he has embodied in any permanent production. We were not previously aware of these obstacles to Mr. Wordsworth's conversion; and, considering the peculiarities of his former writings merely as the result of certain wanton and capricious experiments on public taste and indulgence, conceived it to be our duty to discourage their repetition by all the means in our power. We now see clearly, however, how the case stands;-and, making up our minds, though with the most sincere pain and reluctance, to consider him as finally lost to the good cause of poetry, shall endeavour to be thankful for the occasional gleams of tenderness and beauty which the natural force of his imagination and affections must still shed over all his productions, and to which we affectation and mysticism and prolixity, with shall ever turn with delight, in spite of the which they are so abundantly contrasted. Long habits of seclusion, and an excessive ambition of originality, can alone account for the disproportion which seems to exist be tween this author's taste and his genius; or for the devotion with which he has sacrificed so many precious gifts at the shrine of those paltry idols which he has set up for himself among his lakes and his mountains. Solitary musings, amidst such scenes, might no doubt be expected to nurse up the mind to the majesty of poetical conception,-(though it is remarkable, that all the greater poets lived, or had lived, in the full current of society): |