conceptions, and are often written in a very negligent and incorrect style. But our notions, in regard to the particular characters of the several productions, will be more distinctly conveyed by taking up the most remarkable of them in order, and stating separately, in the very cursory manner, in which our limits will permit, their principal merits and defects. Passing over the Hours of Idleness as immature fruits, we come to the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, the work which commenced the author's reputation.
We have already said that this was one of the best poems, which had appeared, at the time of its publication, since those of Cowper; and most good judges will probably concur in this opinion. It is written with uncommon vigor and spirit, and the best passages will stand a comparison with the finest pages in Pope. It wears, however, some marks of immaturity. The attempts at point are not always successful; and the judgments given of the merit of contemporary poets are often unjust, and savor strongly in many instances of mere petulance. It is amusing, when we recollect the character of some of Lord Byron's subsequent productions, to remark the tone of rigid morality, which he assumes in this work. The future author of Don Juan has no mercy for the graceful errors of Moore and Strangford.
Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheeks by passion flush'd,
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst list'ning dames are hush'd?
Tis Little! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral in his lay!
Griev'd to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame, which o'er her altar burns,
From grosser incense with disgust she turns:
Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee 'mend thy line and sin no more.'
For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hiberian Strangford! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love sick miss admires,
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires.
Learn, if thou can'st, to yield thine author's sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place
By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace?
Mend, Strangford! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure, be amorous, but be chaste,
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore.
One of the happiest passages is the attack on Cottle, or more properly the Cottles, for it seems there were two.
Another Epic! who inflicts again
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market—all alive!
Lines forty thousand! cantos twenty-five!
Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap-in faith, not I.
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight;
Too much o'er bowls of sack prolong the night;
If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold.
Oh! Amos Cottle !-Phoebus! what a name
To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!—
Oh! Amos Cottle! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Plough'd, delv'd, or plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales nor I of him.
Lord Byron seems to have possessed a strong talent for satire; and if we could be sure that he would have directed it to proper objects, we should regret that he had not labored more in this department. The Curse of Minerva, the only other serious satire he wrote, is a very powerful poem, and contains fine passages.
Mortal, (the blue eyed maid resum'd once more,)
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore;
Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine.
Hear, then, in silence, Pallas' stern behest,
Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest;
First on the head of him who did the deed
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed;
Without one spark of intellectual fire,
Be all his sons as senseless as their sire;
If one with wit the parent breed disgrace,
Believe him bastard of a better race;
Still with his hireling artists let him prate,
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate.
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell,
Whose noblest native gusto-is to sell;
To sell, and make (may shame record the day)
The state, receiver of his pilfer'd prey!
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West,
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best,
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er,
And own himself an infant of fourscore.
Be all the bruisers call'd from all St Giles,
That Art and Nature may compare
their styles;
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare
And marvel at his lordship's 'stone shop' there.
Round the throng'd gate shali sauntering coxcombs creep
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep,
While many a languid maid with longing sigh,
On giant statues casts the curious eye.
And last of all, amid the gaping crew,
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view
In silent admiration, mixt with grief,
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Loathed in life, scarce pardoned in the dust,
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust;
Link'd with the fool, who fir'd the Ephesian dome,
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb.
Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine
In many a branding page and burning line,
Alike condemn'd, for aye to stand accurs'd,
Perchance the second viler than the first;
So let him stand through ages yet unborn,
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn!
The beginning of this poem, which was afterwards employed by the author as an introduction to one of the Cantos of the Corsair, is eminently beautiful.
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills and setting sun;
Not as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old Ægina's rock and Idra's Isle,
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile.
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches, through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints along their summits driven
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;
Till darkly shaded from the land, and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.
On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When Athens! here thy wisest, look'd his last!
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell
That closed their murdered sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes.
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But ere he sunk beneath Citharon's head
The cup of wo was quaff'd—the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly,
Who lived and died as none can live or die.
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain
The queen of night asserts her silent reign;
No murky vapor, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play-
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret.
The
groves of olive scattered dark and wide,
Where meek Cephissus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress sadd'ning by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm;
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.
Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold,
Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown where gentler ocean deigns to smile.
The next in order are the Lyric Poems, which are among the most finished and successful of Lord Byron's works. The best of them are perfect in their way; and to criticise them would be only, as Voltaire said of commenting upon Racine, to write at the bottom of every page, Pulchre, Bene, Optime. The greater part of these beautiful pieces are of the pathetic order, and certainly more touching and sweeter strains were never inspired by the Muse of Elegy. What for example can be simpler in thought and expression, and at the same time more powerful and affecting, than the verses on the death of Sir Peter Parker-an officer who was killed in this country during the late war?
There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent;
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All Earth becomes their monument!
A Tomb is their's on every page,
An Epitaph on every tongue;
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes?
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
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