Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat, Or doff'd thine own, to let Queen Dido pass,- I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd, Thou couldst develope, if that wither'd tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world look'd when it was fresh and young, And the great deluge still had left it green!Or was it then so old that history's pages Contain'd no record of its early ages? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,— New worlds have risen,-we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, A heart hath throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, What was thy name and station, age and race? Statue of flesh!-Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence! Why should this worthless tegument endure, TO THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS, DEPOSITED IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. THOU alabaster relic! while I hold My hand upon thy sculptured margin thrown, Let me recall the scenes thou couldst unfold, Might'st thou relate the changes thou hast known; For thou wert primitive in thy formation, Launch'd from the Almighty's hand at the creation. Yes-thou wert present when the stars and skies And worlds unnumber'd roll'd into their places; When God from chaos bade the spheres arise, And fix'd the blazing sun upon its basis, And with his finger on the bounds of space Mark'd out each planet's everlasting race. How many thousand ages from thy birth What time Elijah to the skies ascended, Or David reign'd in holy Palestine, Some ancient Theban monarch was extended Beneath the lid of this emblazon'd shrine, And to that subterraneous palace borne, Which toiling ages in the rock had worn. Thebes, from her hundred portals, fill'd the plain, To see the car on which thou wert upheld; What funeral pomps extended in thy train, What banners waved, what mighty music swell'd, As armies, priests, and crowds bewail'd in chorus, Their King-their God-their Serapis-their Orus! Thus to thy second quarry did they trust Thee, and the lord of all the nations round, Grim king of silence! monarch of the dust! Embalm'd, anointed, jewel'd, scepter'd, crown'd, As if it struggled still to be a king; The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt pour'd His devastating host-a motley crew; The steel-clad horseman,-the barbarian horde,Music and men of every sound and hue,Priests, archers, eunuchs, concubines, and brutes,— Gongs, trumpets, cymbals, dulcimers, and lutes. Then did the fierce Cambyses tear away The ponderous rock that seal'd the sacred tomb; Then did the slowly penetrating ray Redeem thee from long centuries of gloom, And lower'd torches flash'd against thy side, As Asia's king thy blazon'd trophies eyed. Pluck'd from his grave, with sacrilegious taunt, The features of the royal corse they scann'd; Dashing the diadem from his temple gaunt, They tore the sceptre from his graspless hand; And on those fields, where once his will was law, Left him for winds to waste and beasts to gnaw. Some pious Thebans, when the storm was past, Upclosed the sepulchre with cunning skill, And nature, aiding their devotion, cast Over its entrance a concealing rill; But he from whom nor pyramids nor sphynx Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new, A scene by nature cursed, by man disgraced. Now 'tis the world's metropolis! The high Queen of arms, learning, arts, and luxury! Here, where I hold my hand, 'tis strange to think What other hands, perchance, preceded mine; Others have also stood beside thy brink, And vainly conn'd the moralizing line! Kings, sages, chiefs, that touch'd this stone, like me, Where are ye now ?-Where all must shortly be. All is mutation;-he within this stone Was once the greatest monarch of the hour. His bones are dust, his very name unknown! Go, learn from him the vanity of power; Seek not the frame's corruption to control, But build a lasting mansion for thy soul. MORAL ALCHEMY. Tas toils of alchemists, whose vain pursuit Dross into gold, their secrets and their store What to the jibing modern do they seem? A philosophic stone, whose magic spell Which renovates the soul's decaying health, And what it touches turns to purest mental wealth. This secret is reveal'd in every trace Of nature's face, Whose seeming frown invariably tends Transmuting ills into their opposite, And all that shocks the sense to subsequent delight. Seems earth unlovely in her robe of snow? Then look below, Where nature in her subterranean ark, Silent and dark, [world. Already has each floral germ unfurl'd, Behold those perish'd flowers to earth consign'd; Seek in their grave new birth. By nature's power, Each in its hour, Clothed in new beauty from its tomb shall spring, And from each tube and chalice heavenward incense fling. Laboratories of a wider fold I now behold, Where are prepared the harvests yet unborn, In those mute, rayless banquet-halls I see, Of fruits and seeds, food of the feather'd race, Swelling in choral gratitude on high, And what materials, mystic alchemist! To fabricate this ever varied feast, Whence the life, plenty, music, beauty, bloom? From silence, languor, death, unsightliness, and gloom! From nature's magic hand whose touch makes sadEventual gladness, The reverent moral alchemist may learn The art to turn [ness Fate's roughest, hardest, most forbidding dross, Into the mental gold that knows not change or loss. Lose we a valued friend? To soothe our wo Let us bestow On those who still survive an added love, So shall we prove, [store. Howe'er the dear departed we deplore, For our sane years, perchance of lengthen❜d scope; Point to the day when sickness taking flight, In losing fortune many a lucky elf As all our moral bitters are design'd And renovate its healthy tone, the wise There is no gloom on earth, for God above Transmuting sorrows into golden joy Free from alloy, His dearest attribute is still to bless, [fulness. And man's most welcome hymn is grateful cheer THOMAS MOORE. THOMAS MOORE, who has unquestionably attained to the highest reputation as a lyric poet of all contemporaries, was born in Dublin, on the twenty-eighth of May, 1780, and at the early age of fourteen years, became a student of Trinity College in his native city, where he took his degree in 1799. He then went to London, entered the Middle Temple, and in due time was admitted to the bar. In 1800 he published his translation of "Anacreon," which at once made him famous among the gay and the witty spirits who thronged the court of the Regent. Of this translation it may be said, that while it equals the original in grace and harmony, it unhappily surpasses it in seductiveness and voluptuous license. In the next year it was followed by a volume of amatory poems, under the name of LITTLE, which has been no less celebrated for its lubricity and licentiousness. In 1803 he was appointed Registrar to the Admiralty in Bermuda, and during his absence from England he made a flying visit to the United States, which gave rise to a series of satirical and somewhat bitter Odes and Epistles on society and manners in this country, published on his return to London, in 1806. These were attacked in an article by JEFFREY, and the poet sent the critic a challenge. The parties met, but the police prevented a duel, and the pistols, on examination, were found to contain paper pellets, which the seconds had cautiously substituted for bullets, a circumstance alluded to by BYRON in his " English Bards," in a manner which provoked a remonstrance from Mr. MOORE. The poets however, soon became intimate friends, and continued so till the death of BYRON. In 1811 appeared Mr. MOORE's "M. P., or the Blue Stocking;" in 1812, "The Twopenny Post Bag, by Thomas Browne the Younger;" in 1813, his "Irish Melodies;" in 1816, his "Sacred Songs," and in the following year, his celebrated oriental romance of "Lalla Rookh," the four tales in which, and the framework which unites them, were compared in the "Edinburgh Review" to four beautiful pearls, joined together by a thread of silk and gold. Much the best of these tales, and the best of all Mr. MOORE'S longer poems, is "The Fire-Worshippers," which is quoted entire in the following pages. Another volume of humorous sarcasm, entitled "The Fudge Family in Paris," appeared in 1818, and in 1823 his “Loves of the Angels," a poem containing some beautiful passages, but altogether inferior to his earlier productions, and undeserving of comparison with BYRON'S "Heaven and Earth," or CROLY'S "Angel of the World,” which are founded on the same subject. Beside these poems, he has written "Fables for the Holy Alliance," "Corruption and Intolerance," "The Skeptic," "The Summer Fete," and others, all of which are included in the edition of his poetical works published by Carey and Hart, in the present year. Mr. MOORE we believe commenced his career as an author with some brilliant but not very powerful political tracts, and he has since produced several prose works, none of which, excepting "The Epicurean," have added to his good reputation. The Life of SHERIDAN is an amusing book; and with such materials as were placed in the hands of his biographer it could not well have been made otherwise. When GEORGE IV. was told that MOORE had murdered SHERIDAN, he exclaimed, "Not so: he only attempted his life." His memoirs of BYRON, which appeared in two quarto volumes in 1830, are alike unworthy the subject and the author; and the burning of some of BYRON's papers, at the request of interested parties, was an act of dishonour toward the great poet, which nothing can justify. The Life of Captain Rock," and "The Irish Gentleman in Search of Religion," and the "History of Ireland," of which several volumes have been published, would hardly be attributed to the author of "Lalla Rookh," and the "Irish Melodies," were his name not on their title pages. The history of Mr. MOORE is little more than the history of his writings. He is deservedly popular in society for his amiable qualities and fascinating manners; he has shared the intimacy of all the greatest men and writers of an era more prolific in great men and great geniuses than any since that of SHAKSPEARE, and RALEIGH, and SIDNEY; and dividing his time between the quiet charms of domestic ease and the smiles of the most elevated society, he may be pronounced a happy and a fortunate man. As a song writer, he doubtless stands unrivalled. His versification is exquisitely finished, harmonious, and musically toned. The sense is never obviously sacrificed to the sound; on the contrary, he delights in that species of antithetical and epigrammatic turn, which is generally held to excuse some roughness, and to be scarcely compatible with perfect melody of rhythm. In grace, both of thought and diction, in easy fluent wit, in melody, in brilliancy of fancy, in warmth and depth of sentiment, and even in purity and simplicity, when he chooses to be pure and simple, no one is superior to MOORE: but in grandeur of conception, power of thought, and, above all, unity of purpose, and a great aim, he is singularly deficient, and these are necessary to the character, not of a sweet minstrel, but of a great poet. THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Tis moonlight over Oman's sea; And her blue waters sleep in smiles. Where, some hours since, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel, Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;— The music of the bulbul's nest, Or the light touch of lover's lutes, To sing him to his golden rest! All hush'd-there's not a breeze in motion, Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven ;— Can hardly win a breath from heaven. Engraven on his reeking sword ;- When such a wretch before thee stands ; Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lust and hate and crime? E'en as those bees of Trebizond, Which, from the sunniest hours that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad! Never did fierce Arabia send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was Iran doom'd to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her throne had fallen-her pride was crush'd- Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray! Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. By the white moonbeam's dazzling power: None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour. And see-where, high above those rocks Oh what a pure and sacred thing Is beauty, curtain'd from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye,— The flower, that blooms beneath the sea To lift the veil that shades them o'er!- On summer eves, through Yemen's dales; Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower, And grow still lovelier every hour. Light as the angel-shapes that bless Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's soften'd glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Hath risen from her restless sleep, Watching the still and shining deep. In her own land, in happier days. So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, He built her bower of freshness there, And fondly thought it safe as fair :— Nor wake to learn what love can dare→→ Hath ever held that pearl the best Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb th' untrodden solitude Of Ararat's tremendous peak, And think its steeps, though dark and dread, The hero Zal in that fond hour, The rock-goats of Arabia clamber, She loves-but knows not whom she loves, Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) |