ORIGINAL POETRY. I SOUGHT the garden's gay parterre And, first, of peerless form and hue, I turned and saw a tempting row Of flaunting Tulips full in blowBut left them with their gaudy dyes To Nature's beaux-the butterflies. Bewildered 'mid a thousand hues Still harder grew the task to choose :Here delicate Carnations bent Their heads in lovely languishment, Much as a pensive Miss expresses, With neck declined, her soft distressesThere, gay Jonquilles in foppish pride Stood by the Painted-Lady's side, And Hollyhocks superbly tall Beside the Crown-Imperial: But still midst all this gorgeous glow Seemed less of sweetness than of shew; While close beside in warning grew The allegoric Thyme and Rue. There, too, stood that fair-weather Flower Which, faithful still in sunshine hour, With fervent adoration turns Its breast where golden Phoebus burns- Tired of the search I bent my way Where *****'s lonely waters stray, And from the wild-flowers of the grove I framed a garland for my love: The slender circlet first to twine I plucked the rambling Eglantine, And, now, my Mary's brow to braid SONG. Maid of my heart-a long farewell! I hate Ambition's haughty name, And the heartless pride of Wealth and Fame, Can pain or peril bring relief Thy artless grace, thy open truth, Thy dimpling cheek and deep-blue eye, Each witchery of soul and sense, THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,* Who fell at the Battle of Corunna, in 1808. NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. This little poem first appeared in some. of the newspapers a few days ago. It is too beautiful not to deserve preservation in a safer repository; and we have accordingly inserted it among our original pieces. ED. 2 N We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hallowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; Yet, Lina! hadst thou marked, when there The lowly weed enrobed the Fair, What nameless charms-what graces new Its chastened lustre round her threw,While, all around, the Flowers were seen O! thou'dst have doff'd that robe of pride, Do homage to the Rose's Queen : Those sparkling gems have cast aside, And simply decked as Nature bade, Scorned Fashion's--worse than useless-aid! The following is a literal translation of the prose original, of which the above lines are a paraphrastical imitation. The reader of taste will readily feel how very superior its admirable simplicity is to the comparatively ornate style of the translation, THE Angel who watches over Flowers, and in the still night waters them with dew, one day of Spring was sleeping in the shade of a Rose-bush. he said: "Loveliest of my children! I And when he awoke, with friendly look thank thee for thy refreshing fragrance and thy cooling shade. Wouldst thou now aught for thyself request, how willingly would I grant it!" "Then, adorn me with a new grace" And we heard by the distant and random gun, thereupon entreated the Spirit of the RoseThat the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. bush. And the Flower-Angel attired the fairest of Flowers in simple Moss. Lovely stood she then in modest weeds the Moss Rose the fairest of her kind. Fair Lina! leave the gaudy attire and the glittering jewels, and follow the monitions of maternal nature. Krummacher's "Parabeln." J. F. THE MOSS ROSE. (From the German of Krummacher.) EREWHILE, in Orient's sunny clime, When earth-born things were yet in prime, Nor guilt the golden bands had riven That linked in peace the earth to heaven,The Angel-Sprite, whose bounded powers Are given to tend the tribes of Flowers,Each leaf at eve with balm bedewing, At morn each faded charm renewing,One noon, on Spring's first petals laid, Had couched him in the Rose-tree's shade. Refreshed anon he raised his head, And smiling to the Rose-tree said: "My loveliest child, my darling Rose ! Accept the thanks thy father owes :Thanks for thy fragrance freely shed From ruby cup around my head, Thanks for thy cool-reviving shade, While slumbering in thy shelter laid! O ask! whate'er the boon-'tis thine; The joy to grant the boon be mine.""Then o'ermy form new beauties shed”At once the Rose-tree's spirit said. And lo! ere scarce the words have birth, From fragrant wreaths slow-struggling forth, The loveliest Flower with Moss is braided The humblest weed her branches shaded! REVIEW OF NEW PUBLICATIONS, ductions sometimes breathe and glow with genuine feeling and passion, and often exhibit harmless and amusing flights of capricious fancy, they are so fatally infected with a spirit to which we can give no other name than licentiousness, and which is incompatible with that elevation and dignity of moral sentiment essential to the very existence of real poetry. But though he was thus early led astray, he soon began to feel how mean and how unworthy were even the highest triumphs won in such a field, and to pant for nobler achievements. Even in his most unguarded and indefensible productions, his ideas were too bright, sparkling, fugitive, and aerial, to become the slavish ministers of sensuality. His mind was unduly inflamed, but it was not corrupted. The vital spirit of virtue yet burned strong in his soul-its flame soon be MR MOORE is, beyond all comparison, the most ingenious, brilliant, and fanciful Poet of the present age. His external senses seem more delicate and acute than those of other men; and thus perceptions and sensations crowd in upon him from every quarter, apparently independent of volition, and with all the vehemence and vivacity of instinct. He possesses the poetical temperament to excess, and his mind seems always in a state of pleasure, gladness, and delight, even without the aid of imagination, and by means merely of the constant succession and accumulation of feelings, sentiments, and images. The real objects of our every-day world to his eyes glow with all the splendour of a dream, and even during the noon of manhood, he began to glow with less wavering lustre, holds, in all the works of creation, that fresh and unimpaired novelty which forms the glory, and so rarely survives the morning of life. Along with this extreme delicacy and fineness of organization, he possesses an ever-active and creative fancy, which at all times commands the whole range of his previously-acquired images, and suddenly, as at the waving of a magic-wand, calls them up into life and animation. Feeling and Fancy therefore are the distinguishing attributes of his poetical character; yet he is far from being unendowed with loftier qualities, and he occasionally exhibits a strength of Intellect, and a power of Imagination, which raise him above that class of writers to which he might otherwise seem to belong, and place him triumphantly by the side of our greatest Poets. With this warmth of temperament, exceeding even the ordinary vivacity of the Irish national character, and with a fancy so lively and volatile, it behoved Mr Moore, when first starting as a poet in early life, to be cautious in the choice both of his models and his subjects. In both he was most unfortunate; and every lover of virtue must lament, that while his first pro and with manifest aspiration to its native heaven. The errors and aberrations of his youthful genius seemed forgotten by his soul, as it continued to advance through a nobler and purer region; and it is long since Mr Moore has redeemed himself-nobly redeemed himself, and become the eloquent and inspired champion of virtue, liberty, and truth. There can indeed be no greater mistake, than to consider this Poet, since his genius has ripened and come to maturity, as a person merely full of conceits, ingenuity, and facetiousness. Many of his songs are glorious compositions, and will be immortal. Whatever is wild, impassioned, chivalrous, and romantic, in the history of his country, and the character of his countrymen, he has touched with a pencil of light-nor is it too high praise to say to him that he is the Burns of Ireland. True, that he rarely exhibits that intense strength and simplicity of emotion by which some of the best songs of our great national Poet carry themselves, like music from heaven, into the depths of our soul—but whenever imagination requires and asks the aid of her sister fancy-whenever generous and lofty sensibilities, to the glory and triumph of human nature, display themselves in the concentration of patriotism or devotion, then the genius of Moore expands and kindles, and his strains are nobly and divinely lyrical. If Burns surpass him in simplicity and pathos-as certainly does he surpass Burns in richness of fancy -in variety of illustration-in beauty of language in melody of verse-and above all, in that polished unity, and completeness of thought and expression, so essential in all lyrical composition, and more particularly so in songs, which, being short, are necessarily disfigured by the smallest violation of language, the smallest dimness, weakness, or confusion in the thought, image, sentiment, or passion. Entertaining the opinion which we have now imperfectly expressed of Mr Moore's poetical character, we opened Lalla Rookh with confident expectations of finding beauty in every page; and we have not been disappointed. He has, by accurate and extensive reading, imbued his mind with so familiar a knowledge of eastern scenery-that we feel as if we were reading the poetry of one of the children of the Sun. No European image ever breaks or steals in to destroy the illusion-every tone, and hue, and form, is purely and intensely Asiatic-and the language, faces, forms, dresses, mien, sentiments, passions, actions, and characters of the different agents, are all congenial with the flowery earth they inhabit, and the burning sky that glows over their heads. That proneness to excessive ornament, which seldom allows Mr Moore to be perfectly simple and natural-that blending of fanciful and transient feelings, with bursts of real passion-that almost bacchanalian rapture with which he revels, amid the beauties of external nature, till his senses seem lost in a vague and indefinite enjoyment, that capricious and wayward ambition which often urges him to make his advances to our hearts, rather by the sinuous and blooming byeways and lanes of the fancy, than by the magnificent and royal road of the imagination-that fondness for the delineation of female beauty and power, which often approaches to extravagancy and idolatry, but at the same time is rarely unaccompanied by a most fascinating tenderness-in short, all the peculiarities of his genius adapt him for the composition of an Oriental Tale, in which we are prepared to meet with, and to enjoy, a certain lawless luxuriance of imagery, and to tolerate a certain rhapsodical wildness of sentiment and passion. There is considerable elegance, grace, and ingenuity, in the contriv ance, by which the four Poems that compose the volume are introduced to the reader. They are supposed to be recited by a young poet, to enliven the evening hours of Lalla Rookh, daughter of the Emperor of Delhi, who is proceeding in great state and magnificence to Bucharia to meet her destined husband, the monarch of that kingdom. Of course, the princess and the poet fall desperately in love with each other-and Lalla looks forward with despair to her interview with her intended husband. But perhaps most novel readers will be prepared for the denouement better than the simpleminded Lalla Rookh, and will_not, like her, be startled to find, that Feramorz the poet, and Aliris the king, are one and the same personage. All that relates to Lalla Rookh and her royal and poetical lover, is in prose-but prose of so flowery a kind, that it yields no relief to the mind, if worn out or wearied by the poetry. Neither do we think Fadladeen, that old musty Mahomedan critic, in any way amusing-though he sometimes hits upon objections to the poetry of Feramorz, which it might not be very easy to answer. Can it be, that a man of genius like Mr Moore is afraid of criticism, and seeks to disarm it by anticipation? But let us turn to the poetry. The first poem is entitled, "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan."* It opens thus: "In that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowrets and fruits blush over every stream, And, fairest of all streams, the Murga roves Among Merou'st bright palaces and groves ; There, on that throne, to which the blind belief Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-chief, The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province, or Region of the Sun. SIR W. JONES. One of the Royal Cities of Khorassan. In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight For, far less luminous, his votaries said, All glowing from the presence of his God!" * Moses shut themselves up in a fortress. Mokanna, finding farther resistance in vain, poisons all his troops-and after venting his rage, hatred, and contempt on Zelica, leaps into a cistern of such potent poison, that his body is dissolved in a moment. Zelica covers herself with the Silver Veil, and Azim, leading the storming party, mistakes her for Mokanna, and kills her. We could present our readers with many passages of tenderness and beauty from this singular poem; but as we shall have occasion to quote some stanzas of that character from "Paradise and the Peri," we shall confine ourselves to two extracts, in which Mr Moore has successfully attempted a kind of composition new to him ; the one describing the armament of the Caliph as he marched against the Impostor, and the other, the last fatal feast, at which Mokanna poisons the adherents of his fallen fortunes. "Whose are the gilded tents that crown the way, Where all was waste and silent yesterday? Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers bright armory!— Steeds, with their housings of rich silver |
