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; Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls,
And through her emir's porphyry halls,
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell

Of trumpet and the clash of zel,
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ;-
The peaceful sun, whom better suits

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,
The shore is silent as the ocean.
If zephyrs come, so light they come,

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven;-
The wind-tower on the emir's dome

Can hardly win a breath from heaven.
E'en he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps
Calm, while a nation round him weeps;
While curses load the air he breathes,
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths
Are starting to avenge the shame
His race had brought on Iran's name.
Hard, heartless chief, unmoved alike

Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike ;-
One of that saintly, murderous brood,

To carnage and the Koran given,
Who think through unbelievers' blood
Lies their directest path to heaven:
One, who will pause and kneel unshod
In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd,
To mutter o'er some text of God

Engraven on his reeking sword ;—
Nay, who can coolly note the line,
The letter of those words divine,
To which his blade, with searching art,
Had sunk into its victim's heart!
Just Alla! what must be thy look,

When such a wretch before thee stands
Unblushing, with thy sacred book,

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-
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd
In their own land-no more their own-
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd,
To Moslem shrines-oh shame! were turn'd,
Where slaves, converted by the sword,
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd,
And cursed the faith their sires adored.
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still
With hope and vengeance :-hearts that yet,
Like gems, in darkness issuing rays
They've treasured from the sun that's set,
Beam all the light of long-lost days!—
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow
To second all such hearts can dare;
As he shall know, well, dearly know,
Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,
Tranquil as if his spirit lay
Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray!
Sleep on-for purer eyes than thine
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine.
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved

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
That o'er the deep their shadows fling,
Yon turret stands; where ebon locks,
As glossy as a heron's wing
Upon the turban of a king,
Hang from the lattice, long and wild.
"Tis she, that emir's blooming child,
All truth, and tenderness, and grace,
Though born of such ungentle race;
An image of youth's radiant fountain
Springing in a desolate mountain!