Imagens das páginas

"The day is lowering-stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy!
There's not a cloud in that blue plain
But tells of storm to come or past;
Here, flying loosely as the mane

Of a young war-horse in the blast;
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!
Whilst some, already burst and riven,
Seem melting down the verge of heaven;
As though the infant storm had rent
The mighty womb that gave him birth,
And, having swept the firmament,

Was now in fierce career for earth.
On earth 'twas yet all calm around,
A pulseless silence, dread profound,
More awful than the tempest's sound.
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers,
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours
The sea-birds, with portentous screech,
Flew fast to land; upon the beach
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ;
And all was boding, drear and dark
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark

Went slowly from the Persian shore- p. 191, 192.

Hafed is now out in his bark, and the two vessels are driven together in a furious storm.

So wholly had her mind forgot
All thoughts but one, she heeded not
The rising storm-the wave that cast
A moment's midnight, as it passed-
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread
Of gathering tumult o'er her head-

Clash'd swords and tongues that seem'd to vie
With the rude riot of the sky.

But hark!—that war-whoop on the deck

That crash, as if each engine there,

Mast, sails, and all were gone to wreck,
Mid yells and stampings of despair
Merciful heaven! what can it be?
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully

The ship has shudder'd as she rode

O'er mountain waves.'

• When hark!-a second crash-a third-
And now, as if a bolt of thunder,

Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder,
The deck falls in-what horrours then!
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men
Come mix'd together through the chasm."

The yawning deck-the crowd that strove
Upon the tottering planks above-
The sail, whose fragments shivering o'er
The strugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore,
Flutter'd like bloody flags-the clash
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash
Upon their blades, high toss'd about,

Like meteor brands. p. 196, 197.

Hinda is saved from the wreck, and carried senseless into
Hafed's bark.

'How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,-
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn!

When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm,-
And every drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them!

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears,—
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs,
When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;

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And ev❜n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lover's hearts, when newly blest,
Too newly to be quite at rest!

Such was the golden hour, that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance, and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,

As slow it mounted o'er the tide.-' p. 198, 199.
'Shuddering she look'd around-there lay

A group of warriors in the sun

Resting their limbs, as for that day
Their ministry of death were done.
Some gazing on the drowsy sea,
Lost in unconscious reverie;

And some, who seem'd but ill to brook
That sluggish calm, with many a look
To the slack sail impatient cast,

As loose it flagg'd around the mast.' p. 200.

• But now the bark, with livelier bound,

Scales the blue wave-the crew's in motion-
The oars are out, and with light sound
Break the bright mirror of the ocean,
Scattering its brilliant fragments round.
And now she sees-with horror sees
Their course is tow'rd that mountain hold

Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze.' p. 202.

• Their bounding bark drew near

The craggy base, she felt the waves
Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves
That from the deep in windings pass
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass-
And loud a voice on deck commands
To lower the mast and light the brands !—
Instantly o'er the dashing tide
Within a cavern's mouth they glide,
Gloomy as that eternal porch,

Through which departed spirits go ;-
Not ev❜n the flare of brand and torch
Its flickering light could further throw
Than the thick flood that boil'd below.
Silent they floated—as if each

Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech


In that dark chasm, where even sound
Seem'd dark,-so sullenly around
The goblin echoes of the cave
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave.
As 'twere some secrets of the grave!
But, soft-they pause-the current turns
Beneath them from its onward track ;—
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns

The vexed tide, all foaming, back.
And scarce the oar's redoubled force
Can stem the eddy's whirling force ;-
When, hark!-some desperate foot has sprung
Among the rocks-the chain is flung-

The oars are up-the grapple clings,

And the toss'd bark in moorings swings.' p. 203, 204.

They ascend the mountain.

The steepy labyrinth led

Through damp and gloom-'mid crash of boughs,
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse

The leopard from his hungry sleep,

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey,

And long is heard from steep to steep,

Chasing them down their thundering way!

The jackal's cry-the distant moan

Of the hyena, fierce and lone ;-
And that eternal, saddening sound
Of torrents in the glen beneath,
As 'twere the ever dark profound

That rolls beneath the bridge of death!' p. 205.


It would be as idle to praise such poetry as this, as to point out its peculiar beauties. In parts, the thought and manner remind us of something we have seen elsewhere, and yet the effect is not lessened.

In the Light of the Haram,' the only remaining poem, we have a lover's quarrel, with the reconciliation. The parties are the emperour and his favourite-the time and scene are the Feast of Roses, in the valley of Cashmere. The poem is one of our old fashioned Aprils-rain and sunshine, cool tears and soft gayety. There is besides, much of Mr. Moore's peculiar luxury of description. But how is it, that he cannot bring love and nature together, without some wanton association? Take the description of the valley.

· Oh! to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the lake
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!"
'Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun.
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover

The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.' p. 248, 249. We will close with a picture of personal beauty, which we doubt not Mr. Moore would call the finest in the book.

'There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes,
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of heav'n in his dreams!
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face,
And when angry, for ev'n in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes-
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings!
Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring;
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any control,
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun."

p. 254, 255.

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