To idealise modern warfare, or invest it with an air of chivalry in verse, is no common feat. Addison's 'Campaign' is barely redeemed by a single image (the angel), and the author of 'Marmion,' whose Flodden. Field stirs the blood like a trumpet-tone, became tame and prosaic at Waterloo. Byron makes the dragoon's sabre glitter like Arthur's sword Excalibar, and by mere dint of imagination gives to a modern fortification, bristling with cannon, the picturesqueness of a mountain side or valley crowned with rocks. This is Cintra, the natural object to be described: 'But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, Minions of splendour shrinking from dis- None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!' When it is remembered that the writer was young, noble, and handsome-that his career, short as it had been, was involved in mystery-that the keen-edged falchion which he had unsheathed in his satire was ready at any moment to leap from the scabbard-no wonder that he speedily became the idol, in due course the spoiled child, of the fashionable world, and was by common consent enrolled amongst― 'the few Or many, for the number's sometimes such, This is Morena, the material and mechani- Permits whate'er they please, or did not long 'At every turn Morena's dusky height The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. We shall come to descriptive passages of far higher grasp and richer colouring; but those we have just quoted illustrate a quality in which no modern poet has rivalled the noble author. Not the least of the attractions of 'Childe Harold,' especially to the young, lay in the self-revealings, the avowal of over-indulged and yet unsuppressed passions, the premature feeling of satiety, and the deep all-pervading despondency:→→ 'To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd. since.' Intoxicating as all this was, and intensely as it was for a time enjoyed by him despite of his morbid melancholy, he seems to have had an instinctive consciousness that he could not depend on these two cantos of 'Childe Harold' any more than on 'Hours of Idleness,' or 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' for permanent reputation, and that he had in him something better that must come out. Admiration is catching and imitative. When a book has once attracted marked attention, people buy and read in self-defence, whether they derive pleasur from it or not. The odds are, that the mass of readers did not derive much pleasure from Childe Harold,' which has no story, and is mainly discursive on themes which it requires the case was widely different when he enter reading and reflection to follow out. But . ed upon that series of tales which includes 'The Giaour,' 'The Bride of Abydos,' The Corsair,' 'Lara,' 'The Siege of Corinth,' and Parisina.' Then he was read with rapt interest throughout the length and breadth of the land; then he was scrambled for at the circulating libraries; then his applauding public comprised the indiscriminating many as well as the select and discriminating few, They concurred in this instance, and they were right in concurring. Their delight in a story and a plot was simply a return to the That sound had burst his waking dream, But in that instant o'er his soul wholesome taste of the olden times, the golden ages of poetry, the days of Homer and the Homerida, the Troubadours, the Minnesingers, the Bards, who were neither more nor less than story-tellers in verse, and bound, like the lady in the Arabian Nights,' to be provided with an inexhaustible supply. The only wonder is, that the reign of the didactic, speculative, and descriptive poets was prolonged till it was interrupted by Scott and terminated by Byron. The taste for exciting or sensational fiction may be meretricious or carried to excess; both mental and bodily stimulants must be used with caution; but to inspire breathless and sustained interest is one of the rarest and most enviable faculties of inventive genius, and it is hard on a poet to be denied credit for the beauties he scatters by the way because we Although we write principally for those are lured along too fast and in too satisfied who are not familiar with Byron, we will' a state to dwell upon them; because we give them credit for having fallen in, at first read for the story, and then re-read for some time or other in their lives, with the the imagery and thought. Nor, on re-read-renowned episodes of He who hath bent ing either Scott's or Byron's rhymed ro-him o'er the dead,' and 'Knowest thou the mances, is it always to the episodes that we land,' but there is another (in the 'Giaour') turn for genuine poetry. To blend passion which we have reason to believe is less and sentiment with rushing events and action known and unappreciated :is their charm. In 'The Giaour,' for example: 'On-on he hasten'd, and he drew He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, A troubled memory on my breast, 'He stood-some dread was on his face, Impatient of his flight delayed, Here loud his raven charger neigh'd— blade; 'As rising on its purple wing With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, The four concluding lines are nearly as familiar as Scott's Oh woman in our hours Down glanced that hand, and grasped his of ease,' as Moore's 'Oh ever thus from childhood's hour.' But a short_time_since, on their being quoted in a numerous group, a lady, not long past her meridian, turned round to a friend of her own standing with the remark, 'You and I are the only persons present who know where those lines come from.' She proved right. The analogy between beauties and butterflies as objects of chase is obvious enough; and (it may be said) the incident which gave rise to the 'Rape of the Lock' was only a piece of not It is the exquisite over-refined gallantry. workmanship and the delicate handling which give choice works of fancy their value and their charm. What ineffably enhances the effect of Byron's narratives and descriptions, however rapid and condensed or however replete with thought and feeling, is the idiomatic ease of the language, its lucid clearness, and the utter absence of inversion, affectation, or obscurity. You are never obliged to dig for his meaning, never obliged to construe or translate his sentences; whilst there are modern poets who make you work as hard as if you were solving a problem or discovering an acrostic, not unfrequently reminding you of the Irishman's horse, which (he said) was very difficult to catch and when caught not worth having. Mr. Browning is one of the most incorrigible offenders in this line; and this is the more provoking, because he is a man of truly original genius. A patient diver into the depths of his rich and capacious mind has always a fair chance of bringing up pearls. Certainly the most extensively popular of Mr. Tennyson's minor poems is Locksley Hall,' and we can hardly err in attributing the marked preference given to it by the uninitiated, to the spirit, vivacity, and simplicity of the language, and the natural unbroken flood of thought. It reads as if it had been thrown off spontaneously and impulsively, unlike so many of his most admired poems, where the limæ labor may almost invariably be traced. Byron's command of language is equally observable in every variety of metre which he attempted, and on the appearance of 'The Corsair,' critics of all parties hastened to recognise and applaud the flexibility of the heroic couplet in his hands. This poem abounds in passages of beauty and force, the only puzzle being what range of feelings is most strikingly expressed. The parting scene with Medora is replete with the pathos of tenderness: 'She rose-she sprung-she clung to his embrace, Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face, He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms," In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms: Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt So full-that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! Hark-peals the thunder of the signal gun! It told 'twas sunset-and he cursed that sun. Again-again-that form he madly press'd, Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd!" And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, One moment gazed-as if to gaze no more: Felt-that for him earth held but her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead-turn'd-is Conrad gone?' What a startling picture of Remorse is presented by Conrad imprisoned, chained, and destined to the stake: 'There is a war, a chaos of the mind, is o'er. No single passion, and no ruling thought All rushing through their thousand avenues. fate; The hopeless past, the hasting future driven So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, That opening sepulchre-the naked heart Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, To snatch the mirror from the soul-and break.' The scene in which Conrad throws off his disguise is instinct with fire :— 'Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight: Up rose that Dervise-not in saintly garb, But like a warrior bounding on his barb, Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe awayShone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray! His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. ode was a decided failure, and although published anonymously was made the occasion The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow of some bitter criticisms and personalities, Of flames on high, and torches from below; The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell-which cut him to the quick, and on the 29th depreciatory of both genius and character, For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight In the dedication of this poem to Moore (dated January 7th, 1814), Byron speaks of it as the last production with which he shall trespass on public patience for some years. On the 9th of April he writes: 'No more rhyme for or rather from-me. I have taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth will mountebank it no longer.' That very evening a Gazette Extraordinary announced the abdication of Fontainebleau, and in the diary for the 10th we find: Today I have boxed one hour-written an Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, copied it-eaten six biscuit-drunk four, bottles of soda-water, and idled away the rest of my time.' The of the same month he came to the determination not only to write no more, but to purchase back the whole of his copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. For all this,' he said in the letter to Mr. Murray enclosing a draft for the purchasemoney, it might be as well to assign some reason. I have none to give except my own stance of consequence enough to require excaprice, and I do not consider the circumplanation.' This outburst of pique and pettishness did not last longer than forty-eight hours, at the end of which he requests Mr. Murray to tear the draft and go on as usual. In the May following he set to work on Lara,' which was published in August, 1814, in the same volume with Rogers' Jacqueline.' This union of Larry and Jacquey (as he christened them) caused a good deal of merriment and surprise at the indiscretion of the graver poet in trusting his innocent heroine in the company of a returned pirate and his paramour, Kaled, a lady who did not stand upon trifles and wore when a work has been accepted as complete; small clothes. Continuations rarely answer and Lara,' a continuation of the Corsair,' formed no exception to the rule. Neither the conception nor execution can be commended; but that the rich vein which had been worked so prodigally remained unexhausted, was proved by The Siege of Corinth and Parisina,' composed in 1815, and published, the first in January, and the second in February, 1816. The opening of the graceful versification of the poem :'Parisina' may be taken as a specimen of It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; As twilight melts beneath the moon away.' The subject of this poem-an incestuous passion-would have been forgiven him, as many an admitted error or offence against propriety had been condoned in consideration of youth and genius, in the hey-day of his popularity. Then, his countrymen and hand in an abnormal kind of duel, and the wife commits suicide. His share in the catastrophe, attributed to an unforeseen casualty, is unsuspected, and he departs for the East under a flourish of trumpets from the journalists, who hope that the glowing climes of Asia will prove a mine of new inspirations for the celebrated poet who has gloriously marked out his place at the head of our literature.' Their hopes are realised. He returns improved, though saddened; with genius heightened and enriched, but clad in mourning garb. 'He is daily congratulated on this black chord recently added to his lyre, the vibrations of which surpass in mortal sadness the sighs of Renè and the reveries of Obermann. None are aware that his bitterly-passionate pages are written under the inspiration of a funereal vision; and that this melancholy and sombre colour, which they take for the phantasy of imagination, has been tempered with blood and brayed in the heart.' Byron's lyre was similarly re-strung, the chief dif ference being that the source of his renewed inspiration was patent to the world. It is impossible not to see and feel the changed and deepened hue of the despondency with which all his writings are imbued. His tone, after leaving England for the last time, is no longer that of the satiated epicure, the sufferer from fancied sorrows, bat the expression of genuine sadness, of hopeless despondency, welling up from the depths of the heart; and his despairing or reproachful communings with Nature often remind us, by their sublime intensity, of Lear : country women could see nothing wrong, ful catastrophe. The husband falls by his where now they saw nothing right. The crisis had arrived a terrible reaction had set in, and it was not the less terrible because it was irrational and indefensible. What had the literary or fashionable world to do with a domestic quarrel? What could they possibly know about the merits of one that was only whispered about in a onesided shape by the friends of the wife? When an attempt was made to drive Kean from the stage for a breach of the Seventh Commandment, there were law proceedings to testify against him; but where were the pièces justificatives when the cry was raised against Byron? The most brilliant of our essayists and historians has declared that he knew no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels pass with little notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But once in six or seven years our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make a stand against vice. Accordingly, some unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice.' Byron was so singled out; and, it so happened, was singled out at a time when he was undergoing the utmost extent of humiliation to which a haughty spirit could be exposed by pecuniary embarrassment. The letters from his wife to his sister (first published in this Journal) prove that the presence of bailiffs in his house maddened him, and that he was on the verge of downright insanity for some weeks. It is astonishing that he passed unscathed (intellectually, we mean) through the fiery furnace. He not only passed through it with his genius unimpaired, but (we think) refreshed, renewed, and re-invigorated by the shock. The life he led prior to this violent disruption of all the social and domestic ties which bound him to England, was distracting and enervating; and the half-formed resolution to write no more may have been prompted by an inward consciousness that his mind wanted rest or change. In the remarkable novel of Gerfault,' the hero, a dramatic author and poet in the flood-tide of fame, suddenly finds his creative powers giving way. The brain has been overworked, and will no longer answer to the call. He is advised to try either counterirritation or repose. He prefers counterirritation, and fortune so far favours him that he gets involved in an intrigue with a married woman, which ends in a fright 'I tax not you, you elements, with unkind ness, I never gave you kingdom, call'd you chil dren, You owe me no subscription.' Manfred's apostrophe is pitched in the same exalted key: 'Ye toppling crags of ice! Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, The Third and Fourth Cantos of Childe Harold,' immeasurably superior to the First and Second, abound in instances:— 'Thy sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, |