crave. artistically finished epitomes of feeling, by picturesquely blended reminiscences of realism, culture, and poetical idealism. Byron's work is too primitive, too like the raw material of poetry, in its crudity and inequality, to suit our Neo-Alexandrian taste. He wounds our sympathies; he violates our canons of correctness; he fails to satisfy our subtlest sense of art. He showers upon us in profusion what we do not want, and withholds the things for which we have been trained to His personality inspires no love, like that which makes the devotees of Shelley as faithful to the man as they are loyal to the poet. His intellect, though robust and masculine, is not of the kind to which we willingly submit. As a man, as a thinker, as an artist, he is out of harmony with us. Nevertheless, nothing can be more certain than Byron's commanding place in English literature. He is the only British poet of the nineteenth century who is also European; nor will the lapse of time fail to make his greatness clearer to his fellowcountrymen, when a just critical judgment finally dominates the fluctuations of fashion to which he has been subject.-J. A. SYMONDS. BYRON MEASURED BY THE STANDARDS OF UNIVERSAL LITERATURE. If we measure Byron from the standpoint of British literature, where of absolute perfection in verse there is perhaps less than we desire, he will scarcely bear the test of niceness to which our present rules of taste expose him. But if we try him by the standards of universal literature, where of finish and exactitude in ex ecution there is plenty, we shall find that he has qualities of strength and elasticity, of elemental sweep and energy, which condone all defects in technical achievement. Such power, sincerity and radiance, such directness of generous enthusiasm and disengagement from local or patriotic prepossessions, such sympathy with the forces of humanity in movement after freedom, such play of humor and passion, as Byron pours into the common stock, are no slight contributions. Europe does not need to make the discount upon Byron's claims to greatness that are made by his own country.—J. A. SYMONDS. READINGS FROM BYRON. MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ 1 Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart; By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ. Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ, 1 "My life, I love thee." (Pronounced, Zo-ee mou, sas ag-a-po.) ON PARTING. The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, The tear that from thine eyelid streams I ask no pledge to make me blest Nor one memorial for a breast Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write to tell the tale By day or night, in weal or woe, And silent, ache for thee. MARCH, 1811. FARE THEE WELL.1 Fare thee well! and if forever, Still forever, fare thee well : Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee, While that placid sleep came o'er thee 1 Addressed to his wife. Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Though the world for this commend thee Though it smile upon the blow, Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth that we no more may meet. Is These are words of deeper sorrow And when thou wouldst solace gather, When her little hands shall press thee, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. |