rather than from their being hung up in the Caaba, which honour they also had by public order, being written on Egyptian silk and in letters of gold, whence they also had the name of the golden verses. The modern Arabian poetry takes its date from the caliphate of Al Rachid. Their poetry was then become an art, and rules of prosody were digested by Al Khalil Ahmed Al Farahidi, who lived in the reign of that caliph. The Arabians still cultivate poetry, and reward those who excel in it, but they have now no great poets among them. The best are the Bedouins of Djof. Niebuhr mentions that a sheik of that country was imprisoned at Sana, and that, observing a bird upon the roof of a house, he recollected the opinion of those pious Mussulmen who think it a meritorious action to deliver a bird from a cage; he thought that he himself had as good a right to liberty as any bird, and expressed this idea in a poem, which, becoming generally known, at length reached the ear of the monarch, who was so pleased with it that he set the captive at liberty, though he had been guilty of some acts of violence. The exploits of their sheiks are now frequently celebrated in Arabian song. The Arabs declare that the three most charming objects in nature are a green meadow, a clear stream, and a beautiful woman; whence the paradise of Mahomet-green bowers, cool fountains, and dark-eyed houris. The Arabians are so passionately fond of poetry, and so persuaded of its powers, that they have called it "lawful magic." The celebrated Abu-teman says, in one of his odes, "Fine sentiments expressed in prose are like pearls and precious stones scattered here and there; but when they are connected by verse they become as bracelets, and ornaments for the diadems of kings." This elegant allusion is preserved among the Persians; and with them "to string pearls" means to compose verses. The Arabian tongue is expressive, strong, and sonorous; and though the Arabs have, properly speaking, no poems that can be termed heroic, they have elegant histories ornamented with all the graces of poetry. The following is taken from the history of Tamerlane, by Abou Arabchah, wherein that author, in a flowery description, compares the army of that prince to the spring: "When Nature, like an adroit handmaid, adorns the earth with the ornaments of a bride, and the groves resume their glossy green, then the victorious troops scoured the country, and passed like dragons across the plains. Their warlike music resembled the thunder which is contained in the clouds of spring, and their coats of mail shone like the dazzling lustre of lightning; their massive bucklers covered them, like a rainbow suspended over the mountains; their lances and javelins moved like the branches of young trees and shrubs; their scimitars sparkled like meteors, and the clamour of the army resembled a bursting cloud; the banners glittered in the air like anemonies, and the tents were as trees loaded with golden blossoms; the army spread like a torrent, and undulated like the branches of the forest shaken by the storm. Tamerlane, at the head of his troops, advanced towards Samarcand, through verdant groves interspersed with myrtles and odoriferous flowers. Joy was his companion, Gaiety his conductress, Contentment his bosom friend, and Success his inseparable follower." The commencement of one of "the seven poems" reminds us extremely of the style of Ossian:-" Desolate are the mansions of the fair, the stations in Minia where they rested, and those where they fixed their abodes! Wild are the hills of Goul, and deserted is the summit of Rignan." The above is from the poem of Lebeid, the rival of Mahomet; and in the poem of Antara there are also passages which forcibly remind us of the bard of Odin. The Persians have not yielded to the Arabians in the art of telling agreeable falsehoods; for if falsehood was formerly very odious in the intercourse of common life (and they forbade nothing so severely to their children as lying), nevertheless it pleased them extremely in books and literary compositions, if indeed we ought to term fiction falsehood. Strabo says that the Persian preceptors gave their pupils moral instruction enveloped in fiction. The Persians are indeed passionately fond of poetry-it is the common amusement of the great and of the people. At a feast the principal thing would be wanting if poetry ornamented not the repast. Thus there are poets in abundance who are distinguished by their extraordinary dress. Their works of gallantry and their love-stories have been celebrated, and discover the romantic spirit of the nation. One of the chief beauties of the Persian language is the frequent use of compound adjectives, in the variety and elegance of which it surpasses, not only the English and the German, but even the Greek; it is full of sweetness and harmony, and is enriched with several words borrowed from the Arabic. In general, no idiom can be compared with the Persian for its delicacy and the variety of its compound words, as gulfechan, sowing or scattering roses-gulrokh, rose-cheeked. It is, perhaps, as much owing to the facility of Oriental versification as to the climate that Asia has produced more young poets than any other part of the world. The three most celebrated among the Persian poets are Hafez, Sadi, and Ferdusi. The Indians even, neighbours of the Persians, had, like them, their minds disposed to fabulous inventions. Sandabat, an Indian, composed some parables, which have been translated by the Hebrews, and which are still to be found in the libraries of the curious. Those inventions and parables which we have seen as profane in the nations of which I have spoken-the Arabians, Persians, and Indians have been sanctified in Syria. The sacred authors, accommodating themselves to the ideas of the Jews, made use of them to express the inspirations which they received from heaven. The holy Scriptures are in many parts mystical, allegorical, and figurative. Our Saviour himself generally conveys his instructions under the veil of a parable; and all the objects by which they were surrounded supplied the inspired writers with apposite and beautiful images. It is not wonderful that these nations should be thus influenced by a poetical spirit; the customs, dress, and climate of the Orientals all aid their natural disposition for poetry. The view of nature in its most luxuriant form, their picturesque habitations and costumes, the fine expressive features of the men, the beauty of the women, the sweetness of the language, all must tend, in those ardent climes, to produce a sort of mental intoxication, which exhales in metaphor and song. It is in these bright and beautiful climates that we must seek the first principles of poetry: a burning and brilliant sun, which lights up every scene with the richest beauty, and paints every shell and flower with a colouring unknown in less ardent regions—a moon, whose beams are so lustrous that they dazzle by their powermountains, which rear their stupendous forms with impressive majesty-valleys, lovely and luxuriant-plains, covered with the richest gifts of nature-trees, bearing in rich profusion the most delicious. fruits; the grapes of Casbin, yellow as gold, the beautiful apples of Cambul, the prunes of Bokhara, the cherries of Vishna, the dates of Samarcand, with the nectared mangusteen. And then, too, the most gorgeous flowers: the bright hemasagara; the rich anemone ; the fragrant negacesara, whose elegant blossoms are fabled by their poets to ornament the arrows of Camdeo the Indian Cupid; the sandal-melan, or tuberose; the amaranth; and the sweetest roses in the world, so beautiful that the Orientals have fabled the rose the mistress of the nightingale, and that it is to her that all his songs are addressed. All this is natural, with objects so poetical around them; but, together with this warm sentiment of poesy, other feelings take their rise-love, which obstacles drive to frenzy; and revenge, which, with the rage of a volcano, when once the eruption is begun, spreads everywhere ruin and desolation. Their poetry, rich, passionate, and extravagant, aptly expresses the profusion of images with which nature has presented them, the beauty which intoxicates their senses, and the excess of their wild and violent passions. But we must quit these scenes of magnificence, beauty, and imagination, for others of an opposite character; we must turn from the glowing sun of the east to the pale orb of the north, and, leaving the flowery plains of Asia, lose ourselves for awhile amidst the wilds of Scandinavia; but there, even there, we shall find flowers in the midst of rocks, and warmth of heart and vigour of soul amidst realms of ice and snow. A celebrated tradition, confirmed by the poetical compositions of all the northern nations, and by annals, institutions, and customs, some of which still subsist, informs us that an extraordinary personage, named Odin, reigned formerly in the north; that he operated great changes in the government, customs, and religion; that he enjoyed great authority; and that they even paid him divine honours. All these facts cannot be disputed; but the origin of this remarkable man, the country whence he came, the age in which he lived, with some other circumstances upon which the most ingenious researches only serve to show our ignorance, are still somewhat doubtful. All the testimony which merits any confidence is found in the works of Snorro, an old historian of Norway, and in the works which Torfacus has joined to his relation. The Roman republic was at the highest point of power, and saw itself everywhere recognized as sovereign in the then known world, when one particular event raised up enemies even in the forests of Scythia, and to the very banks of the Tanais. When Mithridates fled, he drew Pompey after him into these wild countries. The King of Pontus sought there an asylum, and new means of revenge; for he hoped to arm against the ambition of Rome all the barbarous nations his neighbours, whose liberty she threatened. He succeeded in this at first, but those nations, unstable allies, and soldiers badly armed, and still worse disciplined, were forced to yield to the genius of Pompey. And of this number it is said was Odin, who, obliged to save himself by flight from the pursuit of the Romans, went to seek in countries unknown to his enemies, that liberty which he could no longer enjoy in his own. His true name was Fritz, the son of Fridulph : he took that of Odin, the supreme deity of the Scythians, because he was the high priest, or head of the worship paid to the god Odin. It is well known that several nations bestowed on their pontiffs the appellations of the gods whom they served. Fritz, in pursuance of his ambitious projects, did not fail to usurp a name so proper to secure him the respect of the people he wished to subjugate; and having united under his banner the youth of the neighbouring countries, he marched towards the northern regions of Eurepe, subduing, as it is said, all the nations on his way, and then leaving some of his sons to command them. The chronicles of Iceland describe Odin as the most persuasive of men. "Nothing (say they) could resist the force of his eloquence; sometimes he mingled with his harangues verses which he composed at the moment. And not only was he a great poet, but he was also the first who made known to the Scandinavians the charms of poetry." These chronicles, more poetical than exact, say that he sang airs so melodious and touching, that the shades of the dead, attracted by the sweetness of his songs, left their dark abysses to form a circle around him. Thus, then, Odin was at once the founder of kingdoms, the institutor of a new religion, and the inventor of poetry, in the distant regions of Scandinavia. In Britain the bards, who were Druids of an inferior order, sung the actions of their gods and heroes. Conquerors, desirous of immortalizing their own names, spared these dispensers of glory; they drew them to their camps, and gratitude animating the poetry of the bards, they described their protectors as beings gifted with every virtue. As their genius and knowledge raised them above the vulgar, they consecrated their songs to the praise of all the noblest qualities, and of every heroic sentiment. The kings were eager to take for their models the heroes of poems invented by their bards; the chiefs of tribes endeavoured to equal their kings, and this noble emulation communicating itself to all the nation, formed the general character of the inhabitants of Great Britain, who, from the earliest ages, joined to the fierce valour of a freeborn people the noblest N virtues of civilized nations. The glory of a great people awakens the genius of a man whom nature has gifted with profound feeling and fine imagination-he ardently desires to immortalize his country; common language appears to him beneath the actions he would celebrate; and he knows that measure and harmony will imprint his recitals more easily on the memory. Such, without doubt, was the origin of poetry in every nation, and this art made part of the religion of the Druids. We have now traced hastily and lightly the circle of poetic ground; we have surveyed the classical riches of Greece, and glanced over the poetical treasures of Arabia and Persia; we have seen poesy enthroned in the wilds of Scandinavia, and awakening her strident harp among the Druids of ancient Britain. Poetry or harmony seems to be the only art that has been universally cultivated; and while engaged in this poetic tour, it has struck me forcibly that those eastern nations who are such ardent lovers of verse, will, when converted to the religion of truth, become Christians indeed. The very extravagance of their poetry-that straining of expression— that profusion of imagery, all denote a fulness of feeling which has not yet found an adequate object. But let the name of JEHOVAH be known among them-let the kind, the merciful, the glorious REDEEMER be placed before their mind, and that warmth of soul which now dilates in extravagance over material objects, will then be concentered in GOD. And once more I repeat, that delighted as we may be with the productions of human genius when it adorns every object with the glowing ornaments of poetry, still nought remains to cheer the mind, or satisfy and sustain the soul, and we still feel that all is vanity. One chapter of Isaiah is worth them all: and we say, as did an excellent and admirable prelate,* "that when all is done, there is only one Book in which our souls can find repose— only one in which we can read the inspiring invitation, Come unto me all ye who are weary, and I will give you rest.' Yes, in THE BIBLE alone, can we find perpetual beauty and eternal truth. Authors and authorities quoted in this paper: Huet, Sir William Jones, Rees' "Encyclopædia," Mallet's "Ant. Thierri." AUTUMN.-BY MARTHA GOLDSMITH. 'Tis Autumn's voice that breathes around us- The verdant meads now clad in beauty, * Archbishop Leighton. |