wretched and miserable Dwarf, in the stone hut of his own building, than to Mokanna, beneath his Silver Veil, and in his Palace of Porphyry.

The character of Zelica is, in many places, touched with great delicacy and beauty, but it is very dimly conceived, and neither vigorously nor consistently executed. The progress of that mental malady, which ultimately throws her into the power of the impostor, is confusedly traced; and very frequently philosophical observations and physical facts on the subject of insanity, are given in the most unimpassioned and heavy language, when the Poet's mind should have been entirely engrossed with the case of the individual before him. For a long time we cannot tell whether Mokanna has affected her utter ruin or not, Mr Moore having the weakness to conceal that, of which the distinct knowledge is absolutely necessary to the understanding of the poem. There is also a good deal of trickery in the exhibition he makes of this lady's mental derangement. Whether she be in the Haram, the gardens of the Haram, the charnel-house, or the ramparts of a fortress, she is always in some uncommon attitude, or some extraordinary scene. At one time she is mad, and at another she is perfectly in her senses; and of ten, while we are wondering at her unexpected appearance, she is out of sight in a moment, and leaves us almost as much bewildered as herself. On the whole, her character is a fail

ure.

Of Azim we could say much, if it were not that the situations in which he is placed so strongly remind us of Lord Byron's heroes. There is nothing like plagiarism or servile imitation about Mr Moore, but the current of his thoughts has been drawn into the more powerful one of Lord Byron's mind; and, except that Azim is represented as a man of good principles, he looks, speaks, and acts, exactly in the style of those energetic heroes who have already so firmly established themselves in the favour of the public. We confess, therefore, that we have not felt for him the interest due to his youth, beauty, valour, misfortunes,

and death.

And as she listen'd to the Springs
Of Life within, like music flowing:
And caught the light upon her wings,
Through the half-open portal glowing,
Should e'er have lost that glorious place."
She wept, to think her recreant race

The angel who keeps the gates of light then tells the Peri the conditions on which she may be re-admitted into Paradise.

""Tis written in the Book of Fate,

THE PERI YET MAY BE FORGIVEN,

WHO BRINGS TO THIS ETERNAL GATE

THE GIFT THAT IS MOST DEAR TO
HEAV'N!

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin;-
'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in.'"

The Peri then flies away in quest of this gift, and in a field of battle beholds a glorious youth slain, when endeavouring to destroy the invader of She carries to the gates his country. of Paradise a drop of blood from his heroic heart; but,

"Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
Who died thus for their native land.
But see-alas!-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not;-holier far
Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,
That opes the gates of heav'n for thee !'"

Once more the Peri wings her flight to earth, and, after bathing her plumage in the fountains of the Nile, floats over the grots, the balmy groves, and the royal sepulchres of Egypt, till at length she alights in the vale of Rozetta, near the azure calm of the Lake of Mæris. This beautiful scene is devastated by the plague, and "Just then, beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze. Were wantoning together, free Like age at play with infancy, Beneath that fresh and springing bower. Close by the Lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone; One who, in life, where'er he moved

Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as though he ne'er was loved,

Dies here-unseen, unwept, by any But he is not left alone to die."But see who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek,
Like a young envoy, sent by Health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek!
'Tis she-far off, through moonlight dim,
She, who would rather die with him,
He knew his own betrothed bride;

Than live to gain the world beside !-
Her arms are round her lover now,
His livid cheek to her's she presses,
And dips, to bind his burning brow,
In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses.'

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 strik ing, 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 admit tance 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 burned 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 Heaven-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,
I looked and prayed like thee-but now-
He hung his head-each nobler aim,

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 volume 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 Edition. 8vo. pp. 486. Blackwood, Edinburgh. Cadell and Davies, London, 1817.

-an

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,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.

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 acute ness, 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 hoBut we think that nest nor useful. 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 suf fice. 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, rather freely of the conduct of Queen which was then at press, he had spoken Mary in the affair of Rizzio, ventured to express their fears that the king would issue a prohibition against the work. "Tell me, man," said Buchanan, I have told the truth?"-"Yes, sir," replied his cousin, "I think so." "Then," rejoined the dying histori I will abide his feud, and all his kin's. Pray to God for me, and let him direct all."

an,

66

if

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 "soothfor a high-minded regard to the liber fastness" of his narration,-as well as ties 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 his tory, the maxims of free government, though they be too frequently and carefully sanctioned, as was the prac tice of his time, by references to clas sical story, and though they attach too much to the ancient problem of tyranni cide, 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 adjust ment, and its musically measured ca→ dence, 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 Bem bus 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 vehe ment 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 po litics 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

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

Dr Irving discusses every circum stance 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 au thors 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 Bu chanan, 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 man ners, 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 there fore 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 manage ment 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 languor. 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 fulness 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 of 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 accu→ rate 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 a 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 controversy, 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 justicia, than Dr Irving; and as we are quite sure that his book is a full and trust-worthy 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 exhibits a single intellectual organ, Spurzheim's theory is overthrown.