tone-the perpetual gloom with which all its pathos, is still too much speckled with strange scenes are overcast-and the tediousuess with words; which, whether they are old or new, which some of them are developed. There are not English at the present day-and we are many dull passages, in short, and a con- hope never will become so. What use or orsiderable quantity of heavy reading-some nament does Mr. Southey expect to derive for silliness, and a good deal of affectation. But his poetry from such words as avid and aureate, the beauties, upon the whole, preponderate;— and these, we hope, speak for themselves in the passages we have already extracted.

The versification is smooth and melodious, though too uniformly drawn out into long and linked sweetness. The diction is as usual more remarkable for copiousness than force; and though less defaced than formerly with phrases of affected simplicity and infantine

and auriphrygiate? or leman and weedery, frequentage and youthhead, and twenty more as pedantic and affected? What good is there either, we should like to know, in talking of "oaken galilees," or "incarnadined poitrals," or "all-able Providence," and such other points of learning?-If poetry is intended for general delight, ought not its language to be generally intelligible?

(December, 1816.)

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third. By LORD BYRON. 8vo. pp. 79. London: 1816. The Prisoner of Chillon, and other Poems. By LORD BYRON. 8vo, pp. 60. London: 1816.*

Ir the finest poetry be that which leaves the deepest impression on the minds of its readers and this is not the worst test of its excellence-Lord Byron, we think, must be allowed to take precedence of all his distinguished contemporaries. He has not the variety of Scott-nor the delicacy of Campbell nor the absolute truth of Crabbe-nor the polished sparkling of Moore; but in force of diction, and inextinguishable energy of sentiment, he clearly surpasses them all. "Words that breathe, and thoughts that burn," are not merely the ornaments, but the common staple of his poetry; and he is not inspired or impressive only in some happy passages, but through the whole body and tissue of his composition. It was an unavoidable condition, perhaps, of this higher excellence, that his scene should be narrow, and his persons few. To compass such ends as he had in view, it was necessary to reject all ordinary agents, and all trivial combinations. He could not possibly be amusing, or ingenious, or playful; or hope to maintain the requisite pitch of interest by the recitation of sprightly adventures, or the opposition of common characters. To produce great effects, in short, he felt that it was necessary to deal only with the greater passions with the exaltations of a daring fancy, and the errors of a lofty intellect-with the pride, the terrors, and the agonies of

strong emotion-the fire and air alone of our human elements.

In this respect, and in his general notion of the end and the means of poetry, we have sometimes thought that his views fell more in with those of the Lake poets, than of any other existing party in the poetical commonwealth: And, in some of his later productions especially, it is impossible not to be struck with his occasional approaches to the style and manner of this class of writers. Lord Byron, however, it should be observed, like all other persons of a quick sense of beauty, and sure enough of their own originality to be in no fear of paltry imputations, is a great mimic of styles and manners, and a great borrower of external character. He and Scott, accordingly, are full of imitations of all the writers from whom they have ever derived gratification; and the two most original writers of the age might appear, to superficial observers, to be the most deeply indebted to their predecessors. In this particular instance, we have no fault to find with Lord Byron: For undoubtedly the finer passages of Wordsworth and Southey have in them wherewithal to lend an impulse to the utmost ambition of rival genius; and their diction and manner of writing is frequently both striking and original. But we must say, that it would afford us still greater pleasure to find these tuneful gentlemen returning the compliment which Lord I have already said so much of Lord Byron with Byron has here paid to their talents; and reference to his Dramatic productions, that I cannot forming themselves on the model rather of now afford to republish more than one other paper his imitations, than of their own originals.on the subject of his poetry in general: And I se-In those imitations they will find that, though lect this, rather because it refers to a greater variety he is sometimes abundantly mystical, he of these compositions, than because it deals with

such as are either absolutely the best, or the most, never, or at least very rarely, indulges in abcharacteristic of his genius. The truth is, however, solute nonsense-never takes his lofty flights that all his writings are characteristic; and lead, upon mean or ridiculous occasions - and, pretty much alike, to those views of the dark and the bright parts of his nature, which have led me, I fear (though almost irresistibly) into observations more personal to the character of the author, than should generally be permitted to a mere literary

censor.

above all, never dilutes his strong concep tions, and magnificent imaginations, with a flood of oppressive verbosity. On the contrary, he is, of all living writers, the most concise and condensed; and, we would fain

hope, may go far, by his example, to redeem by one character-not only in all the acts of the great reproach of our modern literature- each several drama, but in all the different its intolerable prolixity and redundance. In dramas of the series;-and, grand and imhis nervous and manly lines, we find no elab-pressive as it is, we feel at last that these very orate amplification of common sentiments- qualities make some relief more indispensable, no ostentatious polishing of pretty expres- and oppress the spirits of ordinary mortals sions; and we really think that the brilliant with too deep an impression of awe and resuccess which has rewarded his disdain of pulsion. There is too much guilt in short, and those paltry artifices, should put to shame for too much gloom, in the leading character ;— ever that puling and self-admiring race, who and though it be a fine thing to gaze, now can live through half a volume on the stock and then, on stormy seas, and thunder-shaken of a single thought, and expatiate over divers mountains, we should prefer passing our days fair quarto pages with the details of one te-in sheltered valleys, and by the murmur of dious description. In Lord Byron, on the con- calmer waters. trary, we have a perpetual stream of thickcoming fancies-an eternal spring of freshblown images, which seem called into existence by the sudden flash of those glowing thoughts and overwhelming emotions, that struggle for expression through the whole flow of his poetry-and impart to a diction that is often abrupt and irregular, a force and a charm which frequently realise all that is said of inspiration.

We are aware that these metaphors may be turned against us-and that, without metaphor, it may be said that men do not pass their days in reading poetry-and that, as they may look into Lord Byron only about as often as they look abroad upon tempests, they have no more reason to complain of him for being grand and gloomy, than to complain of the same qualities in the glaciers and volcanoes which they go so far to visit. Painters, too, it may be said, have often gained great reputation by their representations of tigers and others ferocious animals, or of caverns and banditti-and poets should be allowed, with

cises. We are far from thinking that there is no weight in these considerations; and feel how plausibly it may be said, that we have no better reason for a great part of our complaint, than that an author, to whom we are already very greatly indebted, has chosen rather to please himself, than us, in the use he makes of his talents.

With all these undoubted claims to our admiration, however, it is impossible to deny that the noble author before us has still something to learn, and a good deal to correct. He is frequently abrupt and careless, and some-out reproach, to indulge in analogous exertimes obscure. There are marks, occasionally, of effort and straining after an emphasis, which is generally spontaneous; and, above all, there is far too great a monotony in the moral colouring of his pictures, and too much repetition of the same sentiments and maxims. He delights too exclusively in the delineation of a certain morbid exaltation of character and feeling a sort of demoniacal sublimity, not This, no doubt, seems both unreasonable without some traits of the ruined Archangel. and ungrateful: But it is nevertheless true, He is haunted almost perpetually with the that a public benefactor becomes a debtor to image of a being feeding and fed upon by the public; and is, in some degree, responsiviolent passions, and the recollections of the ble for the employment of those gifts which catastrophes they have occasioned: And, seem to be conferred upon him, not merely though worn out by their past indulgence, for his own delight, but for the delight and unable to sustain the burden of an existence improvement of his fellows through all genewhich they do not continue to animate-full rations. Independent of this, however, we of pride, and revenge, and obduracy-disdain- think there is a reply to the apology. A great ing life and death, and mankind and himself living poet is not like a distant volcano, or an --and trampling, in his scorn, not only upon occasional tempest. He is a volcano in the the falsehood and formality of polished life, heart of our land, and a cloud that hangs over but upon its tame virtues and slavish devo- our dwellings; and we have some reason to tion: Yet envying, by fits, the very beings he complain, if, instead of genial warmth and despises, and melting into mere softness and grateful shade, he voluntarily darkens and compassion, when the helplessness of child-inflames our atmosphere with perpetual fiery hood or the frailty of woman make an appeal explosions and pitchy vapours. Lord Byron's to his generosity. Such is the person with poetry, in short, is too attractive and too whom we are called upon almost exclusively to sympathise in all the greater productions of this distinguished writer:-In Childe Harold -in the Corsair-in Lara-in the Siege of Corinth in Parisina, and in most of the smaller pieces.

It is impossible to represent such a character better than Lord Byron has done in all these productions-or indeed to represent any thing more terrible in its anger, or more attractive in its relenting. In point of effect, we readily admit, that no one character can be more poetical or impressive :-But it is really too much to find the scene perpetually filled

famous to lie dormant or inoperative; and, therefore, if it produce any painful or pernicious effects, there will be murmurs, and ought to be suggestions of alteration. Now, though an artist may draw fighting tigers and hungry lions in as lively and natural a way as he can, without giving any encouragement to human ferocity, or even much alarm to human fear, the case is somewhat different, when a poet represents men with tiger-like dispositions:-and yet more so, when he exhausts the resources of his genius to make this terrible being interesting and attractive, and to represent all the lofty virtues as the natural

the moral or general reflections which are It beats! Away, thou dreamer! he is gone! interspersed with the narrative. The death It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. of Lara, however, is by far the finest pas-"He gaz'd, as if not yet had pass'd away sage in the poem, and is fully equal to any The haughty spirit of that humble clay; thing else which the author has ever written. And those around have rous'd him from his trance, Though it is not under our immediate cog- But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance; nisance, we cannot resist the temptation of And when, in raising him from where he bore Within his arms the form that felt no more, transcribing the greater part of the passage He saw the head his breast would still sustain, in which the physical horror of the event, Roll down, like earth to earth, upon the plain! though described with a terrible force and He did not dash himself thereby; nor tear fidelity, is both relieved and enhanced by the The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, beautiful pictures of mental energy and re- But strove to stand and gaze; but reel'd and fell, deeming affection with which it is combined. Scarce breathing more than that he lov'd so well! Our readers will recollect, that this gloomy The breast of Man such trusty love may breathe! Than that He lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath and daring chief was mortally wounded in That trying moment hath at once reveal'd battle, and led out of it, almost insensible, by The secret, long and yet but half-conceal'd; that sad and lovely page, whom no danger In baring to revive that lifeless breast, could ever separate from his side. On his re- Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest! treat, slaughter and desolation falls on his And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shameWhat now to her was Womanhood or Fame ?" disheartened followers; and the poet turns from the scene of disorder

"Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene,
Where but for him that strife had never been,
A breathing but devoted warrior lay :

Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away!
His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side,
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak; but motions him 'tis vain,
And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage,
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees,
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim,'
Held all the light that shone on earth for him!

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field,
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield;
They would remove him; but they see 'twere vain,
And he regards them with a calm disdain,
That rose to reconcile him with his fate,
And that escape to death from living hate:
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed,
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,
And questions of his state: He answers not;
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,
And turns to Kaled:-each remaining word,
They understood not, if distinctly heard ;
His dying tones are in that other tongue,
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung,'
Their words though faint were many-from the tone
Their import those who heard could judge alone;
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's
death

[&c.

We must stop here;-but the whole sequel of the poem is written with equal vigour and feeling; and may be put in competition with any thing that poetry has ever produced, in point either of pathos or energy.

The SIEGE OF CORINTH is next in the order of time; and though written, perhaps, with too visible a striving after effect, and not very well harmonised in all its parts, we cannot help regarding it as a magnificent composition. There is less misanthropy in it than in any of the rest; and the interest is made up of alternate representations of soft and solemn scenes and emotions-and of the tumult, and terrors, and intoxication of war. These opposite pictures are perhaps too violently contrasted, and, in some parts, too harshly coloured; but they are in general exquisitely designed, and executed with the utmost spirit and energy. What, for instance, can be finer than the following nightpiece? The renegade had left his tent in moody musing, the night before the final assault on the Christian walls.

"'Tis midnight! On the mountain's brown
The cold, round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters; blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;

Who ever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur'd meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow'd on the waves;
The banners droop'd along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill,

And the wide hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer."—

The transition to the bustle and fury of the morning muster, as well as the moving picture of the barbaric host, is equally admirable.

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curv'd is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit:
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before!
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare ;
So is the blade of his scimitar!

The khan and the pachas are all at their post;
The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fir'd, then on!
Leave not in Corinth a living one-

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls!
God and the Prophet!-Alla Hu!

Up to the skies with that wild halloo!

"As the wolves, that headlong go

On the stately buffalo,

Though with fiery eyes and angry roar,

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die :
Thus against the wall they went,

Thus the first were backward bent!
Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass,
Strew'd the earth like broken glass,
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore

The ground whereon they mov'd no more:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,

Like the mower's grass at the close of day,
When his work is done on the levell'd plain;
Such was the fall of the foremost slain!
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,
From the cliffs invading dash

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go,-
Like the avalanche's snow

On the Alpine vales below;

Thus at length, outbreath'd and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne

By the long, and oft renew'd

Charge of the Moslem multitude!

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel,

Hand to hand, and foot to foot:

Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory!

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun,
And all but the after-carnage done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plunder'd dome:
Hark to the haste of flying feet!

That splash in the blood of the slippery street!"
PARISINA is of a different character. There
is no tumult or stir in this piece. It is all sad-
ness, and pity, and terror. The story is told
in half a sentence. The Prince of Esté has
married a lady who was originally destined
for his favourite natural son. He discovers a
criminal attachment between them; and puts
the issue and the invader of his bed to death,

before the face of his unhappy paramour.
There is too much of horror, perhaps, in the
circumstances; but the writing is beautiful
throughout; and the whole wrapped in a rich
and redundant veil of poetry, where every
thing breathes the pure essence of genius and
sensibility. The opening verses, though soft
shade of sorrow which gives its character and
and voluptuous, are tinged with the same
harmony to the whole poem.

"It is the hour when from the boughs,
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear!
Each flower the dews have lightly wet;
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
But it is not to list to the waterfall
That Parisina leaves her hall, &c.

"With many a ling'ring look they leave
The spot of guilty gladness past!

And though they hope and vow, they grieve,
As if that parting were the last.

The frequent sigh-the long embrace-
The lip that there would cling for ever,
While gleams on Parisina's face

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her!
As if each calmly conscious star
Beheld her frailty from afar."

The arraignment and condemnation of the guilty pair, with the bold, high-toned, and yet temperate defence of the son, are managed with admirable talent; and yet are less touching than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who stands in speechless agony beside him.

"Those lids o'er which the violet vein-
Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
Shining through the smoothest white
That e'er did softest kiss invite-
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;
Which glance so heavily, and fill,
As tear on tear grows gath'ring still.-
"Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew-
And there with glassy gaze she stood
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear
So large and slowly gather'd, slid
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid,
It was a thing to see, not hear!
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was chok'd within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
It ceas'd-again she thought to speak
Then burst her voice in one long shriek,
And to the earth she fell, like stone
Or statue from its base o'erthrown."

The grand part of this poem, however, is that which describes the execution of the rival son; and in which, though there is no pomp, either of language or of sentiment, and every thing, on the contrary, is conceived and expressed with studied simplicity and directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to