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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 burnt 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,
VOL. I.

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,
He hung his head--each nobler aim,
I looked and prayed like thee-but now"

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 vo→ lume 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. 20

Memoirs of the Life and Writings
of George Buchanan. By DAVID
IRVING, LL. D. The Second Edi-
tion. 8vo. pp. 436. Blackwood,
Edinburgh.
Cadell and Davies,
London, 1817.

GEORGE BUCHANAN is an instance of more various excellence than belongs to any man of his time. He was, in Latin, a lyric and dramatic poet,-an historian, and the most rational and accomplished writer on politics of that age-and all this with a spirit of freedom, which Milton and Sydney, a century afterwards, did not excel, and with a grammatical accuracy of which Quintilian himself might have approved. As a practical politician, he was firm, moderate, and judicious;too high-minded to adopt all the fervour of vulgar prejudice-while he was essentially bound in mind and heart to the popular cause,-and too independent to make common interest with an ignorant and selfish nobility, or to flatter the weaknesses of a pedantic monarch; though in the one body he could see a part more worthy than the rest, and, in the other, something that was to be supported as belonging to the chief magistrate of the nation. It is pleasing to speak of such a man in the language of Mil

ton.

"A better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms,
repell'd

The fierce Epirot, and the Afran bold;
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow states, hard to be spell'd;
Then to advise how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage: besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each

means,

What severs each."

As an officer of the government, he was disinterested, and as useful and intelligent as we can imagine of one who had a large previous acquaintance with mankind-great natural acuteness, and an intimate friendship and connexion with the wisest statesmen of his day. His noble generosity, and contempt of all pecuniary advantages, may be inferred from the fact, that though he had been preceptor to the king, and enjoyed some of the most honourable and lucrative appointments, along with a pension of five hundred pounds, yet all he died possessed of

was a part of the half-yearly payment of that pension. As for the finer shades of his personal character, we have no materials on which to ground a fair account of them,-and mere presumption, in this case, is neither honest nor useful. But we think that the opening of his " Admonitioun" is clearly illustrative of a genteel modesty of demeanour, and an arch suavity of manner, nearly allied to generosity and vigour of mind, and far removed from pedantry or bigotry. The passage would do honour to the adroit politeness of a modern adviser.

For his vigorous determination of mind, and strong sense of independence, the story related by James Melvin, among other instances, may suffice. A year before the death of the historian, while his health was declining, Andrew Melvin and his nephew, James, paid him a visit; and finding, that in the latter part of his history, which was then at press, he had spoken rather freely of the conduct of Queen Mary in the affair of Rizzio, ventured to express their fears that the king would issue a prohibition against the work. Tell ine, man,' said Buchanan, if I have told the truth? Yes, sir,' "I think so.'replied his cousin, Then,' rejoined the dying historiI will abide his feud, and all an, his kin's. Pray to God for me, and let him direct all.'

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As an historian, he is remarkable for the classical purity and richness of his diction, and commendable, in so far as regards events that approach his own times, for the spirit and "soothfastness" of his narration, as well as for a high-minded regard to the liberties and happiness of mankind.-Of his dialogue," De Jure Regni," we can only say, that it brings him far beyond his age, and that coupling its invaluable principles, which are those of our English revolution, with its exquisite Latinity, it is the finest prose composition by any modern in the language of ancient Rome.

In this work, as well as in his history, the maxims of free government, though they be too frequently and carefully sanctioned, as was the practice of his time, by references to classical story, and though they attach too much to the ancient problem of tyrannicide, are wonderfully distinct. To their exclusive honour, however, it must be said, that they bear not the least evi

dence of having been written under a feudal despotism. A few sentences near the close of his history, which he puts into the mouth of Morton at a convention of the nobles held at Stirling, afford full proof of this assertion. They contain the germ of all the modern improvements in government, and are not inferior to any thing in the Defensio pro populo Anglicano.*

His poetry has the rare quality of delighting, by its niceness of adjustment, and its musically measured cadence, while it is more adequately replenished with ideas, than perhaps -that of any subsequent writer of Latin verse. For a ready instance of the two first qualities, it is sufficient to refer any one who remembers the delight with which he first perused it, to the dedicatory epigram addressed to Queen Mary before the translation of the Psalms. As proof that Buchanan wrote from the impulse of a full mind, as well as for the gratification of one of the finest poetical ears-a few lines from his ode to May might suffice. There is no better verse in all Bembus or Fracastorius, and very little poetry any where equal to the whole of that fine ode, for moral tenderness, and an exquisite sensitiveness of fancy, which looks to nature and all times, as they are associated with human feelings.

In the characters and situations of Knox and of Buchanan, there were some peculiar similarities, and some differences equally striking. Both were ardent lovers of liberty,-both vehement in their tempers,-both had been tried in scenes of disappointment and incertitude, far from their native land,and both were ultimately brought into the strong current of popular politics by a chain of imposing events, which it was not unnatural that the fervid imaginations and enthusiastic propensities, which are most nourished in a period of reformation, should have regarded as influenced by the special and direct interposition of the Almighty. In matters of taste and judgment, however, there was no such parallel. In the lucidus ordo animi, Buchanan leaves Knox far behind. His is the true mens sana, giving elegance of dic

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tion, and almost attraction, even to the grossest historical fables of an ignorant and credulous people, preserving its equilibrium in the heats and sallies of civil commotion,-not forcing mankind, or expecting greatly of them, in any way so much as by a clear and extended view of their in

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terests. There are passages of the Admonitioun," "*which have reminded us of the invectives of Burke, in his "Letters on a Regicide Peace."

Dr Irving discusses every circumstance connected with the life of Buchanan, and much of what relates to the literary men of his time in Europe, with extreme accuracy. The account of the Portuguese literati is copious, and possesses the interest of making an English reader acquainted with authors not generally known. This part, however, and the notices of those learned men with whom Buchanan was connected, are digressions; and, as they are long and particular, they lead us away from the main story, so that ordinary persons may forget whether they are reading the memoirs of Buchanan, or of Turnebus, Muretus, or Govea. We are also so unfortunate as to think, that these digressive discussions sometimes oblige us to read of names which may be safely consigned to oblivion, and to refer to authors, who, without any offence against good manners, might remain in their protracted obscurity. To those inquirers, whose familiarity with the learned languages may not equal their laudable thirst for knowledge, a full account of Buchanan's pursuits and connections is valuable-But to this end, it is not necessary that we should resuscitate all the dry bones that ever wore an academical gown during his stay at the continental seats of learning.

Dr Irving is a moderate, and therefore a rational, though a firm friend of civil and religious liberty; and we meet in this book with passages which are far superior to the cold and lifeless speculations of a mere scholar,—and, assuredly, of an higher strain than a careless or impatient reader might be apt to perceive, or ready to admit, if he only looked to their com

Dr Irving has shewn a commendable attention to the completeness of his work, by printing this very curious tract in the appendix.

pactness and simplicity of enunciation. There is an exemplary coolness of judgment, and calmness of manner about our author, which is strongly evinced in the management of this biography. He never attempts to reason his reader into an admiration of his theme, by supposing motives which the most clear exposition of Buchanan's conduct, or the most obvious construction of his own language, when he speaks for himself, would not fully warrant. He may fail in ease, or variety, or graphical delineation;-but he has no fits of langour. He has energy without invective, or assumption, or declamation, or straining for effect. All this may be called inane mediocrity by those who love a continual smartness of manner and fullness of assertion,and it may not half please those ardent spirits who look back on times that are gone as better than our times, and on the men as perfect who supported their speculative opinions strenuously and successfully in practice at a period of revolution, trying enough, we confess, to internal vigour and capacity for action. But it appears to our old-fashioned eyes, that a man evinces accurate taste, and a masculine understanding, when he never attempts to raise his subject out of its natural limits. In history and biography, severe truth is a cardinal requisite. The one can never be honestly made an agreeable tale, made up of something that did occur, and more that might be imagined, nor the other safely rendered a partial pleading, calculated to bring a frail man much nearer perfection than his own estimate of himself, or the opinion of his contemporaries, could ever have led him to aspire to. The literary, as well as personal character of our age is remarkable, we think, for a struggling vivacity-an appearance of easy powerfulness and careless vigour, which seems to attempt and accomplish great things, more by a strenuous grasp of first principles, and a rapid felicity of representation, than by patient thought and a silent attention to the truth of particulars. Dr Irving's self-denying sobriety in speculation, and full attention to the truth of history, point him out as an honourable exception from those peculiarities which future ages may consider as the odd variety of our own.

Dr Irving's taste for classical literature is pure and highly informed. He has been advantageously known to the public for several years, as the author of a very complete and useful little book on the elements of composition; and his own style, if it wants variety and softness, is not tinged with any thing like vulgarity. The most accurate scrutiny could not produce from the whole of this volume more than two or three instances of peculiarity of diction, or violation of the idiom of our language. The whole shews & taste which has been formed on the best models, or rather, which always seems so much under the guidance of a judgment remarkable for clearness, method, and order, as to require no models to work from.

-

The former edition of this book contained some asperities of contro versy, all of which are suppressed. Throughout the whole, there is not a single attempt to flatter vulgar prejudices;-and what is still more virtuous, because there is a temptation to it which is always more difficult to resist, we never find this manly writer affording the incense of adulation to great names, or foisting in the pretensions of some considerable living person, in order to speak courteously of them. We know no biographer or historian, who could more firmly exclaim, fiat justitia, than Dr Irving; and as we are quite sure that his book is a full and trustworthy record, -so we are convinced that it will be long valued by the judicious few who expect moderately, and judge coolly. We bid farewell to him and to it with a feeling of respect, and something like regret that our limits do not allow us to expatiate longer on the merits of either.

The Craniad, or Spurzheim Illustrated; a Poem, in two parts. 12mo. Blackwood, Edinburgh, 1817.

THE Craniad is the worst poem we have now in Scotland. The author has it in his power at once to decide the great craniological controversy: Let him submit his skull to general inspection, and if it exhibit a single intellectual organ, Spurzheim's theory. is overthrown..

1817.]

By
Manfred. A Dramatic Poem.
LORD BYRON. SVO. Murray, Lon-
don, 1817.

LORD BYRON has been elected by
acclamation to the throne of poetical
supremacy, nor are we disposed to
question his title to the crown. There
breathes over all his genius an air of
kingly dignity; strength, vigour, ener-
gy, are his attributes; and he wields
his faculties with a proud conscious-
ness of their power, and a confident
anticipation of their effect. Living
poets perhaps there are, who have
taken a wider range, but none who
have achieved such complete, such per-
fect, triumphs. In no great attempt
has he ever failed; and, soon as he be-
gins his flight, we feel that he is to
soar upon unflagging wings,-that
when he has reached the black and
elevation of his favourite
tempestuous
atmosphere, he will, eagle-like, sail on
undisturbed through the heart of
clouds, storms, and darkness.

To no poet was there ever given so awful a revelation of the passions of the human soul. He surveys, with a stern delight, that tumult and conflict of terrible thoughts from which other highly-gifted and powerful minds have involuntarily recoiled; he calmly and fearlessly stands upon the brink of that abyss from which the soul would seem to shrink with horror, and he looks down upon, and listens to, the everlasting agitation of the howling waters. There are in his poetry feelings, thoughts, sentiments, and passions, that we at once recognise to be human, though we know not whence they come; they break upon us like the sudden flash of a returning dream, like some wild cry from another world. And even those whose lives have had little experience of the wilder passions, for a moment feel that an unknown region of their own souls has been revealed to them, and that there are indeed fearful mysteries in our human

nature.

When this dark and powerful spirit for a while withdraws from the contemplation of his own wild world, and condescends to look upon the ordinary shews and spectacles of life, he often seems unexpectedly to participate in the feelings and emotions of beings with whom it might be thought he could claim no kindred; and thus many passages are to be found in his

poetry, of the most irresistible and
overpowering pathos, in which the
depth of his sympathy, with common
sorrows and common sufferers, seems as
profound as if his nature knew nothing
more mournful than sighs and tears.

We have no intention of drawing
Lord Byron's poetical character, and
have been led, we know not how, into
these very general and imperfect ob-
servations. But perhaps the little we
have said may in some degree shew,
why hitherto this great poet has dealt
so seldom with the forms of the ex-
ternal world. He has so deeply look-
ed into the soul of man, and so intense-
ly sympathized with all the struggles
there that he has had no feelings or
passions to fling away on the mere
But it is evident
earth he inhabits.
that the same powers, which he has so
gloriously exerted upon man as their
subject, would kindle up and enlight-
en, or darken and disturb, the features
of external nature; and that, if he so
willed it, his poetry, instead of being
rife with wrath, despair, remorse,
and all other agitating passions,
might present an equally sublime as-
semblage of woods, glens, and moun-
tains,-of lakes and rivers, cataracts
and oceans.

1

In the third canto of Childe Harold, accordingly, he has delivered up his soul to the impulses of Nature, and we have seen how that high communion has elevated and sublimed it. He instantly penetrated into her heart, as he had before into the heart of Man; and, in a few months of solitary wandering among the Alps, his soul became as deeply embued with her glory and magnificence, as if, from youth, he had dedicated himself to no other power, and had for ever devoutly worshipped at her altar. He leapt at once into the first rank of descriptive poets. He came into competition with Wordsworth upon his own ground, and with his own weapons; and in the first encounter, he vanquished and overthrew him. His description of the stormy night among the Alps-of the blending-the mingling-the fusion of his own soul, with the raging elements a-a round him,-is alone worth all the dull metaphysics of the Excursion, and shews that he might enlarge the limits of human consciousness regarding the operations of matter upon mind, as widely as he has enlarged them regard ing the operations of mind upon its

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