PARADISE AND THE PERI.

[Thomas Moore, born in Dublin, 28th May, 1779, died 25th February, 1852. As a song-writer, Christopher North esteemed him as the best "that ever warbled, or chanted, or sung." But he also distinguished himself as a miscellaneous writer and as a biographer. He was a great favourite in private and public life, yet he was as severely condemned by many critics as any author who ever wrote. Lalla Rookh is his most important work, and it is regarded as one of the most perfect series of pictures of eastern life, manners, and scenery, although the poet obtained all his knowledge of the East from the study of books of travel. One critic declared that reading Lalla Rookh was "as good as riding on the back of a camel." D. M. Moir in his Sketches of Poetical Literature says of it: "Its great charm consists in the romance of its situations and characters, the splendour of its diction and style, and the prodigal copiousness of its imagery." The following is one of the four poems of which Lalla Rookh is composed.]

One morn a PERI at the gate
Of Eden stood disconsolate;
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, She wept to think her recreant race Should ere have lost that glorious place.

"How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, "Are the holy spirits that wander there,

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of heaven outblows them all!

"Though sunny the lake of cool CASHMERE, With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,2

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; Though bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY, And the golden floods that thitherward stray,3 Yet-oh 'tis only the bless'd can say

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

1 Mr. Murray paid three thousand guineas for Lalla Rookh, and it is to the credit of the poet that he sent two-thirds of that sum to his parents. As another instance of the high prices Moore received for his work, it is mentioned that he received altogether for his Irish melodies £15,000-which is computed to be at the rate of six pounds per line!

2 Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the planetrees upon it.-Forster.

3 The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing su-Hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it."-Description of Tibet in Pinkerton.

Rapidly as comets run

To the embraces of the sun;-
Fleeter than the starry brands,
Flung at night from angel hands5
At those dark and daring sp'rits
Who would climb the empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the PERI flies,

And lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from morning's eyes,
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the spirit go
To find this gift for heaven?-"I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn,
In which unnumber'd rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR;6
I know where the isles of perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright ARABY;?
I know too where the Genii hid
The jewell'd cup of their king JAMSHID8

7

"The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue Campac flowers only in Paradise."-Sir W. Jones.

5 "The Mahometans suppose that falling-stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyreum or verge of the heavens."-Fryer.

The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures which still remain there.-D'Herbelot, Volney.

7 The Isles of Panchaia.

8"The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."-Richardson.

With life's elixir sparkling high-
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of ALLA's wonderful throne!
And the drops of life-oh! what would they be
In the boundless deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd
The air of that sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem;
Whose rivulets are like rich brides,
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood-the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers! Land of the sun! what foot invades Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades, Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones? 'Tis he of GAZNA,1-fierce in wrath

He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.

His blood-hounds he adorns with Torn from the violated necks

gems,

Of many a young and loved Sultana;2. Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the PERI turns her gaze;
And, through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

Alone, beside his native river,-
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqueror, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood-
Silent he pointed to the flood

All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart
For answer to th' invader's heart.

Yet mark'd the PERI where he lay;

And when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
"My welcome gift at the gates of light;
Though foul are the drops that oft distil
On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill
That sparkles among the bowers of bliss!
Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

"Sweet," said the angel, as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the brave,
Who die thus for their native land.
But see-alas!-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be,
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among AFRIC's lunar mountains,3 Far to the south, the PERI lighted; And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide,-whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth, Deep in those solitary woods Whereof the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, And hail the new-born giant's smile! Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves, Her grots and sepulchres of kings, The exiled Spirit sighing roves; And now hangs listening to the doves In warm ROSETTA'S vale-now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of MORIS' lake.5 "Twas a fair scene-a land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought that saw this night, Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in heaven's serenest light;Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending, Warns them to their silken beds;

3 "The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lunæ of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise."-Bruce.

"The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtledoves."-Sonnini.

5 Savary mentions the pelicans upon lake Mæris.

Those virgin lilies all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake
That they may rise more fresh and bright,
When their beloved sun's awake,-
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem
The relics of a splendid dream;

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard,
Nought seen but (when the shadows flitting,
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam)
Some purple-wing'd Sultana1 sitting

Upon a column motionless,
And glittering like an idol bird!—

Who could have thought that there, even there,
Amid those scenes so still and fair,
The demon of the plague hath cast
From his hot wing a deadlier blast,
More mortal far than ever came
From the red desert's sands of flame!
So quick, that every living thing
Of human shape touch'd by his wing,
Like plants, where the Simoom hath pass'd,
At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now,

And ne'er will feel that sun again! And oh! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey! Only the fierce hyæna stalks 2 Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal fall; Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit,

But the trail of the serpent is over them all!” She wept the air grew pure and clear

Around her, as the bright drops ran,
For there's a magic in each tear

Such kindly spirits weep for man!
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

1 Sonnini describes this beautiful bird.

2 This circumstance has been introduced into poetry;

-by Vincentius Fabricius, by Darwin, and lately, with very powerful effect, by Mr. Wilson.

One who in life where'er he moved,

Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet, now, as though he ne'er were loved, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him-none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day, To speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard. That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world when all is o'er, Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in deathThat she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own, Was safe from this foul midnight's breath;Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool airs from fountain-falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

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
He knew his own betrothed bride,
She, who would rather die with him,

Than live to gain the world beside!—
Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Ah! once how little did he think An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms that were to him
Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!
And now he yields-now turns away,
Shuddering as if the venom lay
All in those proffer'd lips alone--
Those lips that, then so fearless grown,
Never until that instant came
Near his unask'd or without shame.
"O let me only breathe the air,

The blessed air that's breathed by thee,
And whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me!
There,-driuk my tears, while yet they fall,
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And well thou know'st, I'd shed it all,
To give thy brow one minute's calm:

Nay, turn not from me that dear faceAm I not thine-thy own loved brideThe one, the chosen one, whose place

In life or death is by thy side! Think'st thou that she, whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

That must be hers, when thou art gone? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself?-No, noWhen the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too. Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there." She fails-she sinks-as dies the lamp In charnel airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes: One struggle,-and his pain is past.— Her lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving.

"Sleep!" said the PERI, as softly she stole
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast-
"Sleep on, in visions of odour rest,
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird,
Who sings at the last his own death lay,1
And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings through the place,
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed
Such lustre o'er each paly face,

That like two lovely saints they seem'd
Upon the eve of doomsday taken
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping;-
While that benevolent PERI beam'd
Like their good angel calmly keeping

Watch o'er them, till their souls would waken!

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the PERI soars above,
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh
Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate,
The Elysian palm she soon shall win,
For the bright Spirit at the gate
Smiled as she gave that offering in,

1"In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ-pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood, and consumes himself."-Richardson.

And she already hears the trees

Of Eden with their crystal bells, Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of ALLA swells; And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake
Upon whose banks admitted souls
Their first sweet draught of glory take!
But ah! even Peri's hopes are vain-
Again the fates forbade, again
The immortal barrier closed-"Not yet,"
The Angel said, as, with regret,

He shut from her that glimpse of glory--
"True was the maiden, and her story,
Written in light o'er ALLA's head,
By seraph eyes shall long be read.
But, PERI, see-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not-holier far
Than even this sigh the boon must be
That opes the gates of Heaven for thee."
Now, upon SYRIA's land of roses
Softly the light of eve reposes,
And, like a glory, the broad sun
Hangs over sainted LEBANON;
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,
And whitens with eternal sleet,
While summer, in a vale of flowers,
Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who look'd from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,
More golden where the sunlight falls;-
Gay lizards glittering on the walls2
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks,
With their rich restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west,-as if inlaid

With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span

The unclouded skies of PERISTAN!
And then the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,
Banqueting through the flowery vales, -
And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine,
And woods, so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless PERI;
Her soul is sad-her wings are weary-
Joyless she sees the sun look down
On that great temple once his own,3

2 Vide Bruce's Travels.

3 The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'd

With the great name of SOLOMON,
Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean lies the boon,
The charm that can restore so soon,
An erring Spirit to the skies!

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither;-
When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies1
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-
And, near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd
To the fair child, who fearless sat,
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,-
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire!
In which the PERI's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;
The ruin'd maid—the shrine profaned –
Oaths broken-and the threshold stain'd
With blood of guests!-there written, all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften'd his spirit), look'd 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 burn'd all night
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

1 Vide Sonnini.

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight 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 th' 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
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh,

For glories lost 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,
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 look'd and pray'd like thee-but now"-
He hung his head-each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!

Bless'd tears of soul-felt penitence,
In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

"There is a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon EGYPT's land, of so healing a power,
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour
That drop descends, contagion dies,
And health reanimates earth and skies!-
Oh! is it not thus, thou man of sin,

The precious tears of repentance fall!
Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!" And now-behold him kneeling there By the child's side in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The triumph of a soul forgiven!

2 The Nucta or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.