468

LORD BYRON

DARKNESS.

Cities and forests are burnt, for light and warmth.
"The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them! Some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd!
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world! and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd!"

Then they eat each other: and are extinguished!

The populous and the powerful was a lump,

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless

A lump of death a chaos of hard clay!

The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,

And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;

Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal: As they dropp'd

They slept on the abyss without a surge

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them- She was the universe."

There is a poem entitled "The Dream," full of living pictures, and written with great beauty and geniusbut extremely painful and abounding with mysteries into which we have no desire to penetrate. "The Incantation" and "Titan" have the same distressing character

- though without the sweetness of the other. Some stanzas to a nameless friend, are in a tone of more open misanthropy. This is a favourable specimen of their tone and temper.

"

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

Though lov'd, thou foreborest to grieve me,

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,—

Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,

Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie."

Beautiful as this poetry is, it is a relief at last to close

HIS SORROWS NOT FICTITIOUS.

469

the volume. We cannot maintain our accustomed tone of levity, or even speak like calm literary judges, in the midst of these agonizing traces of a wounded and distempered spirit. Even our admiration is at last swallowed up in a most painful feeling of pity and of wonder. It is impossible to mistake these for fictitious sorrows, conjured up for the purpose of poetical effect. There is a dreadful tone of sincerity, and an energy that cannot be counterfeited, in the expression of wretchedness and alienation from human kind, which occurs in every page of this publication; and as the author has at last spoken out in his own person, and unbosomed his griefs a great deal too freely to his readers, the offence now would be to entertain a doubt of their reality. We certainly have no hope of preaching him into philanthropy and cheerfulness; but it is impossible not to mourn over such a catastrophe of such a mind; or to see the prodigal gifts of Nature, Fortune, and Fame, thus turned to bitterness, without an oppressive feeling of impatience, mortification and surprise. Where there are such elements, however, it is equally impossible to despair that they may yet enter into happier combinations, -or not to hope that "this puissant spirit"

"yet shall re-ascend Self-raised, and repossess its native seat."

470

MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH.

Lalla Rookh;

(NOVEMBER, 1817.)

an Oriental Romance. By THOMAS MOORE. 4to. pp. 405. London, 1817.

THERE is a great deal of our recent poetry derived from the East: But this is the finest Orientalism we have had yet. The land of the Sun has never shone out so brightly on the children of the North-nor the sweets of Asia been poured forth, nor her gorgeousness displayed so profusely to the delighted senses of Europe. The beauteous forms, the dazzling splendours, the breathing odours of the East, seem at last to have found a kindred poet in that Green Isle of the West; whose Genius has long been suspected to be derived from a warmer clime, and now wantons and luxuriates in those voluptuous regions, as if it felt that it had at length regained its native element. It is It is amazing, indeed, how much at home Mr. Moore seems to be in India, Persia, aud Arabia; and how purely and strictly Asiatic all the colouring and imagery of his book appears. He is thoroughly embued with the character of the scenes to which he transports us; and yet the extent of his knowledge is less wonderful than the dexterity and apparent facility with which he has turned it to account, in the elucidation and embellishment of his poetry. There is not, in the volume now before us, a simile or description, a name, a trait of history, or allusion of romance which belongs to European experience; or does not indicate an entire familiarity with the life, the dead nature, and the learning of the East. Nor are these barbaric ornaments thinly scattered to make up a show. They are showered lavishly over all the work; and form, perhaps, too much, the staple of the poetry and the riches of that which is chiefly distinguished for its richness.

We would confine this remark, however, to the de

RATHER TOO BRILLIANT.

471

scriptions of external objects, and the allusions to literature and history -- or to what may be termed the materiel of the poetry before us. The Characters and Sentiments are of a different order. They cannot, indeed, be said to be copies of European nature; but they are still less like that any of other region. They are, in truth, poetical imaginations; — but it is to the poetry of rational, honourable, considerate, and humane Europe, that they belong- and not to the childishness, cruelty, and profligacy of Asia. It may seem a harsh and presumptuous sentence, to some of our Cosmopolite readers: But from all we have been able to gather from history or recent observation, we should be inclined to say that there was no sound sense, firmness of purpose, or principled goodness, except among the natives of Europe, and their genuine descendants.

There is something very extraordinary, we think, in the work before us and something which indicates in the author, not only a great exuberance of talent, but a very singular constitution of genius. While it is more. splendid in imagery-(and for the most part in very good taste)-more rich in sparkling thoughts and original conceptions, and more full indeed of exquisite pictures, both of all sorts of beauties and virtues, and all sorts of sufferings and crimes, than any other poem that has yet come before us; we rather think we speak the sense of most readers when we add, that the effect of the whole is to mingle a certain feeling of disappointment with that of admiration! to excite admiration rather than any warmer sentiment of delight -to dazzle, more than to enchant — and, in the end, more frequently to startle the fancy, and fatigue the attention, by the constant succession of glittering images and high-strained emotions, than to maintain a rising interest, or win a growing sympathy, by a less profuse or more systematic display of attractions.

The style is, on the whole, rather diffuse, and too unvaried in its character. But its greatest fault, in our eyes, is the uniformity of its brilliancy- the want of plainness, simplicity and repose. We have heard it

472 LALLA ROOKH-WANTS UNITY AND REPOSE.

observed, by some very zealous admirers of Mr. Moore's genius, that you cannot open this book without finding a cluster of beauties in every page. Now, this is only another way of expressing what we think its greatest defect. No work, consisting of many pages, should have detached and distinguishable beauties in every one of them. No great work, indeed, should have many beauties: If it were perfect, it would have but one; and that but faintly perceptible, except on a view of the whole. Look, for example, at what is perhaps the most finished and exquisite production of human art- the design and elevation of a Grecian temple, in its old severe simplicity. What penury of ornament-what rejection of beauties of detail! what masses of plain surface-what rigid economical limitation to the useful and the necessary! The cottage of a peasant is scarcely more simple in its structure, and has not fewer parts that are superfluous. Yet what grandeur - what elegance-what grace and completeness in the effect! The whole is beautifulbecause the beauty is in the whole: But there is little merit in any of the parts, except that of fitness and careful finishing. Contrast this, now, with a Dutch pleasure-house, or a Chinese-where every part is meant to be separately beautiful- and the result is deformity!-where there is not an inch of the surface that is not brilliant with varied colour, and rough with curves and angles,-and where the effect of the whole is monstrous and offensive. We are as far as possible from meaning to insinuate that Mr. Moore's poetry is of this description. On the contrary, we think his ornaments are, for the most part, truly and exquisitely beautiful; and the general design of his pieces very elegant and ingenious: All that we mean to say is, that there is too much ornament - too many insulated and independent beauties and that the notice, and the very admiration they excite, hurt the interest of the general design; and not only withdraw our attention too importunately from it, but at last weary it out with their perpetual

recurrence.

It seems to be a law of our intellectual constitution,