"Paris" had been begun to be forgotten; and it was high time that both he and it should be recalled to the public eye by some such fresh and forcible demonstration of existence as may be found abundantly in the volume now before us. WE are well aware, that the period of Mr Croly's poetical silence has not been a period of indolence; but this is not the time for expressing all that we feel concerning the services he has been rendering to his country, and the literature of his country too, during the last year. He may rest assured, that the day will come when none of his many merits shall be suffered to sleep in the oblivion of thanklessness. It is with his poetry alone that we are at present concerned.

"The Angel of the World," which stands first in the new volume, is a beautiful paraphrase on one of the most graceful fictions of the Koran. The angels, Haruth and Maruth, had, it seems, spoken uncharitably concerning mankind-and expressed, in the regions above, great contempt for those temptations which are, and have long been found, most efficacious for overthrowing the resolution of terrestrial virtue. That they might have their own fearless purity put to the proof, the two proud Angels were sent down to dwell for a season on the earth, and to mingle with those that it inherit. A WOMAN was sent to tempt them, and they fell. Her charms won them first to drink of the forbidden fruit of the grape; and after that fall, all others were easy. They stained their essence with the corruptions of sense, and betrayed to mortal ears "the words that raise men to Angels."

In order to simplify, and thereby increase the interest of this story, our poet has contented himself with narrating the seduction of one Angel only; but he has wisely adhered, in all other respects, to the original of the legend. With infinite splendour of language, he describes "the Angel of the World" as tabernacled within a lofty tower near the city of Damascus, there listening to the petitions of the Children of Earth. A variety of temptations appear in different human shapes, and are stedfastly resisted. At last comes the moment of peril. The form arose the face was in a veil, The voice was low, and often check'd with sighs;

threw

Their clusters in the western golden glare. Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze Was at his look dropp'd instant on the ground;

But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze,
Her bosom heaved above its silken bound,
As if the soul had felt some sudden wound.
He looked again; the cheek was deadly pale;
The bosom sank with one long sigh profound;
Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil,
And one still press'd her heart-that sigh
told all its tale.

She stoop'd and from the thicket pluck'd a flower,

Kiss'd it with eager lip, then with faint hand Laid it upon the bright step of the bower; Such was the ancient custom of the land. Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd,

The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet; Yet even that sweet slight boon, 'twas Hea

ven's command,

food;

Woe to the heart that lets thee once intrude, Victim of visions that life's purpose steal, Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued, Bleeding with wounds the grave alone must heal;

Bright Spirit was it thine that mortal woe to feel?

The Angel takes up the flowerand, in spite of a warning thunderpeal, followed by terrible storm of the desert, permits his dangerous visitant to remain in his bower. He listens to her song, and then comes another warning from heaven, attended with equal success.

The Angel knew the warning of that storm; But saw the shuddering Minstrel's step draw near,

And felt the whole deep witchery of her form,

Her sigh was music's echo to his ear;
He loved and true love ever banished fear.
Now night had droop'd on earth her raven
wing;

But in the arbour all was splendour clear;
And like twin spirits in its charmed ring
Shone, that sweet child of earth, and that

star diadem'd King.

brain;

He knew his ruin, but his soul was quell'd; He shudder'd-gazed upon her cheek again, Press'd her pale lip, and to the last that cup did drain.

The Enchantress smiled, as still in some sweet dream,

Then waken'd in a long, delicious sigh,
And on the bending Spirit fixed the beam
Of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye.
The undone Angel gave no more reply
Than hiding his pale forehead in the hair
That floated on her neck of ivory,

And breathless pressing, with her ringlets fair,

From his bright eyes the tears of passion and despair.

The convulsions on earth, sea, and sky, which follow the draining of the guilty cup, satisfy the Angel that his doom is sealed. The temptress, however, faints by his side, and he thinks of nothing but her.

The Angel cheer'd her, "No! let Justice

wreak

Its wrath upon them both, or him alone.” A flush of love's pure crimson lit her cheek; She whisper'd, and his stoop'd ear drank the

tone

With mad delight;

one

"Oh there is one way,

To save us both. Are there not mighty words
Graved on the magnet throne where Solomon
Sits ever guarded by the Genii swords,
To give thy servant wings like her resplen-
dent Lord's ?"

This was the Sin of Sins! The first, last crime,

In earth and heaven, unnamed, unnameable; This from his gorgeous throne, before all time,

Had smitten Eblis, brightest, first that fell; He started back." What urged him to rebel !

What led that soft seducer to his bow'r! Could she have laid upon his soul that spell, Young, lovely, fond; yet but an earthly flow'r ?",

But for that fatal cup, he had been free that hour.

But still its draught was fever in his blood. He caught the upward, humble, weeping gleam

Of woman's eye, by passion all subdued; He sigh'd, and at his sigh he saw it beam : Oh! the sweet frenzy of the lover's dream! A moment's lingering, and they both must die.

The lightning round them shot a broader

stream;

He felt her clasp his knees in agony;
He spoke the words of might,-the thunder
gave reply!

Away! away! the sky is one black cloud,
Shooting the lightnings down in spire on
spire.
Now, round the Mount its canopy is bow'd,

A vault of stone on columns of red fire.
The stars like lamps along its roof expire;
But thro' its centre bursts an orb of rays;
The Angel knew the Avenger in his ire!
The hill-top smoked beneath the stooping
blaze,

The culprits dared not there their guilty eye

balls raise.

Whose love had lost him Paradise, was gone; He dared not see her corpse !-he closed his eyes;

A voice burst o'er him, solemn as the tone Of the last trump,-he glanced upon the skies,

He saw what shook his soul with terror, shame, surprise.

Th' Enchantress stood before him; two broad plumes

Spread from her shoulders on the burthen'd air;

Her face was glorious still, but love's young blooms

Had vanish'd for the hue of bold despair; A fiery circle crown'd her sable hair; And, as she look'd upon her prostrate prize, Her eyeballs shot around a meteor glare, Her form tower'd up at once to giant size;' 'Twas EBLIS, king of Hell's relentless sovereignties.

The tempter spoke" Spirit, thou might'st have stood,

But thou hast fall'n a weak and willing slave. Now were thy feeble heart our serpents' food, Thy bed our burning ocean's sleepless wave, But haughty Heaven controuls the power it gave.

Yet art thou doom'd to wander from thy sphere,

Till the last trumpet reaches to the grave; Till the Sun rolls the grand concluding year; Till Earth is Paradise; then shall thy crime

be clear."

Our readers, after perusing these specimens, will agree with us in thinking, that Mahomet's beautiful" warning against wine" has been treated in a style worthy of its beauty. Mr Croly, however, may do well to devote himself henceforth to subjects of more directly human interest. It is only playing with his strength to lavish so much splendour on a story, the chief merit of which, after all he has done, must be admitted to lie in the first conception.

There is another poem in the volume, against the subject of which nothing can be said, but we are afraid, in its execution, Mr Croly has indulged himself in very culpable haste and negligence-faults, of which comparatively few traces can be discovered in "the Angel of the World." This is the tale of "Sebastian," a fine romantic sketch of Spanish adventure, breathing, throughout, all the rich and passionate spirit of the land where its scene is laid. It is a pity that the young poet had not bestowed more pains on this production, for the story is very happy; and here and there there do occur particular passages ela

borated in a style superior to any thing he has elsewhere exhibited, and scarcely inferior, we must add, to any thing we can remember in the poetry of his most celebrated contemporaries. Nothing, we think, can be more exquisitely written than the apostrophe to the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra, which occurs at page 78, and yet the beauty of the writing is far from being even the chief of its merits. Palace of beauty! where the Moorish Lord, King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword, Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days, When at thy morning gates the coursers stood,

The "thousand," milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood,

In pearl and ruby harness'd for the king; And thro' thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood

Of jewell'd Sheik and Emir, hastening,
Before the sky the dawning purple show'd,
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling.
Lovely thy morn,—thy evening lovelier still,
When at the waking of the first blue star
That trembled on the Atalaya hill,
The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose,
Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war;
It summon'd all thy beauty from repose,
The shaded slumber of the burning noon.
Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone,
Shooting the sparkling column from the vase
Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze
Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry,
And the rich bordering beds of every bloom
That breathes to African or Indian sky.
Carnation, tuberose, thick anémone,
Pure lily, that its virgin head low waved
Beneath the fountain drops, yet still would

come,

Like hearts by love and destiny enslaved, That see, and shrink,and yet will seek their doom.

Then was the harping of the minstrels heard,
In the deep arbours, or the regal hall,
Hushing the tumult of the festival,
When the pale bard his kindling eyeball
rear'd,

And told of eastern glories, silken hosts, Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd;

Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts Of the far western sea, the sons of blood, The iron men of tournament and feud, That round the bulwarks of their fathers

Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told,
Where is thy horn of battle? that but blown
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne;
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall;
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore ;
Brought every charger barded from the stall,
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour
The living deluge on the fields of Spain.
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain
Upon thy brow-the stain of guilt and gore,
Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous,

and 'tis o'er.

Silence is now sole monarch on thy throne! The spear and diadem are from thee gone;

Neither do we recollect any one specimen, even of Lord Byron's power of rapid sketching, more admirable than the following one of the assumption of the veil by a daughter of the house of Medina Sidonia.

The porch is fill'd with rich escutcheon'd

cars,

And glossy jennets, plumed and ribbonrein'd,

Pure Arab blood, their broad fronts bright

with stars,

Quick-eyed, full-crested, high and purple vein'd:

They stand with nostrils wide and chests thick panting;

For all their passage up that causeway slanting

Had been a mimic combat, many a spear Had cross'd the saddle in that gay career. The sight within was splendid; from the porch

The aisle's long vista shew'd the lamp, and torch,

And silver urn of frankincense and myrrh, Filling the air with fragrance and with gloom,

And, twined round shrine and time-worn sepulchre

Within the stone what darker mockeries lie
In lovely mockery, the rose's bloom;
Of man and pomp! Oh vain mortality.
All to the chancel gates was pearl, and
plume,

And ermined cap, and mantle stiff with gold, For there the tide of knights and dames had roll'd,

And there had stopp'd: beyond was like a tomb,

Shut from the daylight, high barr'd, silent,

cold;

And in is beings scarcely of man's mould Were moving, scatter'd, swift, and soundlessly,

Shadows that rose and perish'd on the eye. Music is heard, such sounds as spirits breathe On their night watches, if the tale be true, Around the loved in life, the loved in death, Calling them upwards to the concave blue: And on the walls, as far as eye can gaze, Flits through the dusk a torch's wavering blaze.