rest are about to destroy her, when Arnold, entering, rescues her at the peril of his life. He begs her to descend; but she, preferring death to the fate which seems to await her, dashes herself down from the lofty altar on the marble floor:

Arn. (to Olimpia.) Lady! you are safe.
Olim.

I should be so,

Had I a knife even; but it matters not-
Death hath a thousand gates; and on the marble,
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down
Upon destruction, shall my head be dashed,
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man.
Arn. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and
Thine own, although I have not injured thee.
Olim. No! Thou hast only sacked my native land,—
No injury and made my father's house

A den of thieves-No injury !—this temple

Slippery with Roman and holy gore.

No injury! And now thou would preserve me,

To be-but that shall never be !

[She raises her eyes to heaven, folds her robe round her, and prepares to dash herself down on the side of the altar opposite to that where Arnold stands. Hold! hold!

Arn.

1 swear.

Olim. Spare thine already forfeit soul

A perjury for which even Hell would loathe thee.

I know thee.

Arn.

No, thou know'st me not; I am not

Of these men, though

Olim.

I judge thee by thy mates';

It is for God to judge thee as thou art.

I see thee purple with the blood of Rome!
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shall have of me!
And here, upon the marble of this temple,*
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's,
I offer him a blood less holy

But not less pure (pure as it left me then,
A redeemed infant) than the holy water
The Saints have sanctified!

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and

dashes herself on the pavement from the altar.

Arnold and Cæsar bear her out for the purpose of procuring assistance, which, as she still breathes, may restore her; and thus the second part ends.

Of the third part no more was written than a chorus of peasants singing before the gates of a castle in the Appennines. The following is an extract from this song:

The wars are over,

The spring is come;

The bride and her lover

Have sought their home:

They are happy, we rejoice;

Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!

The spring is come; the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun';

With us she is but a winter's flower,

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their Herald out of dim December-

The morning star of all the flowers,

The ledge of day-light's lengthened hours;
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget

The virgin, virgin Violet.

Enter Cæsar.

Cæsar (singing).

The wars are all over,

Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle,

The casque's on the wall.
There's rest for the Rover;
But his armour is rusty,
And the veteran grows crusty,
As he yawns in the hall.

He drinks but what's drinking?

A mere pause from thinking!

No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.

It is impossible now to do more than guess at what Lord Byron meant in the conclusion of this poein-whether he proposed to follow the course of the romance, or to invent new adventures for his hero: we are inclined to adopt the latter opinion.

This was Lord Byron's last poem, with the exception of an ode (which we shall hereafter have to notice); and here we shall add the opinions which were entertained of his personal and poetical merit by two of the greatest men who have graced the age in which we liveGoëthe and Sir Walter Scott. The first is a translation of a letter, addressed by the German poet to Mr. Medwin:

'Weimar, 16th of July, 1824.

It has been thought desirable to have some details relative to the communication that existed between Lord Noel Byron, alas! now no more! and Goethe: a few words will comprise the whole subject.

'The German poet, who, up to his advanced age, has habituated himself to weigh with care and impartiality the merit of illustrious persons of his own time, as well as his immediate contemporaries, from a consideration that this knowledge would prove the surest means of advancing his own, might well fix his attention on Lord Byron; and, having watched the dawn of his great and early talents, could not fail to follow their progress through his important and uninterrupted

career.

It was easy to observe that the public appreciation of his merit as a poet increased progressively with the increasing perfection of his works, one of which rapidly succeeded another. The interest which they excited had been productive of a more unmingled delight to his friends, if self-dissatisfaction and the restlessness of his passions had not in some measure counteracted the powers of an imagination allcomprehensive and sublime, and thrown a blight over an existence which the nobleness of his nature gifted him with a more than common capacity for enjoying.

'His German admirer, however, not permitting himself to come to a hasty and erroneous conclusion, continued to trace, with undiminished attention, a life and poetical activity equally rare and irreconc leable, and which interested him the more forcibly, inasmuch as he could discover no parallel in past ages with which to compare them, and found

himself utterly destitute of the elements necessary to calculate re specting an orb so eccentric in its course.

In the mean while the German and his occupations did not remain altogether unknown or unattended to by the English writer, who not only furnished unequivocal proofs of an acquaintance with his works but conveyed to him, through the medium of travellers, more than one friendly salutation.

Thus I was agreeably surprised by indirectly receiving the original sheet of a dedication of the tragedy of "Sardanapalus," conceived in terms the most honourable to me, and accompanied by a request that it might be printed at the head of the work.

The German poet, in his old age, well knowing himself and his labours, could not but reflect with gratitude and diffidence on the expressions contained in this dedication, nor interpret them but as the generous tribute of a superior genius, no less original in the choice than inexhaustible in the materials of his subjects;-and he felt no disappointment when, after many delays, "Sardanapalus" appeared without the preface: he, in reality, already thought himself fortunate in possessing a fac-simile in lithograph,* and attached to it no ordinary value.

It appeared, however, that the noble lord had not renounced his project of showing his contemporary and companion in letters a striking testimony of his friendly intentions, of which the tragedy of "Werner" contains an extremely precious evidence.

It might naturally be expected that the aged German poet, after receiving from so celebrated a person such an unhoped-for kindness (proof of a disposition so thoroughly amiable, and the more to be prized from its rarity in the world), should also prepare, on his part, to express most clearly and forcibly a sense of the gratitude and esteem with which he was affected.

• But this undertaking was so great, and every day seemed to make it so much more difficult, for what could be said of an earthly being whose merit could not be exhausted by thought, or comprehended by words?

But when, in the spring of 1823, a young man of amiable and engaging manners, a Mr. S, brought, direct from Genoa to Weimar, a few words under the hand of this estimable friend, by way of recommendation, and when shortly after there was spread a report that the noble lord was about to consecrate his great powers and varied talents • Goethe does not mention of what nature the lithograph was.'

to high and perilous enterprise, I had no longer a plea for delay, and addressed to him the following hasty stanzas:

One friendly word comes fast upon another

From the warm South, bringing communion sweet,—
Calling us amid noblest thoughts to wander

Free in our souls, though fettered in our feet.
How shall I, who so long his bright path traced,
Say to him words of love sent from afar ?—
To him who with his inmost heart hath struggled,
Long wont with fate and deepest woes to war?
May he be happy!-thus himself esteeming,
He well might count himself a favored one!
By his loved Muses all his sorrews banished,

And he self-known,—e'en as to me he's known!"

These lines arrived at Genoa, but found him not. This exceller friend had already sailed; but, being driven back by contrary winds, he landed at Leghorn, where this effusion of my heart reached him. On the eve of his departure, July 23d, 1823, he found time to send me a reply, full of the most beautiful ideas and the divinest sentiments which will be treasured as an invaluable testimony of worth and friendship among the choicest documents which I possess.

What emotions of joy and hope did not that paper once excite!— but now it has become, by the premature death of its noble writer, an inestimable relic, and a source of unspeakable regret; for it aggravates to a peculiar degree in me, the mourning and melancholy that pervade the whole moral and poetical world,-in me, who looked forward (after the success of his great efforts) to the prospect of being blessed with the sight of this master-spirit of the age, this friend so fortunately acquired; and of having to welcome, on his return, the most humane of conquerors.

But still I am consoled by the conviction, that his country will at once awake, and shake off, like a troubled dream, the partialities, the prejudices, the injuries, and the calumnies with which he has been assailed, that these will subside and sink into oblivion,—that she will at length universally acknowledge that his frailties, whether the effect of temperament, or the defect of the times in which he lived, (against which even the best of mortals wrestle painfully,) were only momentary, fleeting, and transitory; whilst the imperishable greatness to which he has raised her now and for ever remains, and will remain illimitab e