[A few days after he had put the finishing hand to the "Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte," Lord Byron adopted the most extraordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered into the mind of an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the tone of disparagement in which his assailants - not content with blackening his moral and social character-now affected to speak of his genius, and somewhat mortified, there is reason to believe, by finding that his own friends dreaded the effects of constant publications on his ultimate fame, he came to the determination, not only to print no more in future, but to purchase back the whole of his past copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. With this view, on the 29th of April, he actually enclosed his publisher a draft for the money. "For all this," he said, "it might be as well to assign some reason: I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circumstance of consequence enough to require explanation." An appeal, however, from Mr. Murray, to his good-nature and considerateness, brought, in eight and forty hours, the following reply: "If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter: tear my draft, and go on as usual: that I was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress all future publication, is true; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more particularly your own."

The following passages in his Diary depict the state of Lord Byron's mind at this period:-" Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, 'he is lucky in having such a poet'-something as if one was a pack-horse, or ass, or any thing that is his;' or like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some enquiry after the Odes on Razors, 'Laws, sir, we keeps a poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript-'The Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame! and, after all, quite as good as any other life in others' breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More."-" March 17th, Redde the ' Quarrels of Authors,' a new work by that most entertaining and researching writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat.' What the devil had I to do with scribbling? It is too late to enquire, and all regret is useless. But an' it were to do again— I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share of it; - though I shall think better of myself if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son, I will bring up mine heir in the most anti-poetical way—make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or anything. But if he writes, too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will cut him off with a Bank token."-" April 19. I will keep no further journal; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume. Oh fool! I shall go mad.""

These extracts are from the Diary of March and April. Before the end of May he had begun the composition of “Lara,” which has been almost

universally considered as the continuation of "The Corsair." This poem was published anonymously in the following August, in the same volume with Mr. Rogers's elegant tale of " Jacqueline;" an unnatural and unintelligible conjunction, which, however, gave rise to some pretty good jokes. "I believe," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters," I told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine- at least a friend of his - was reading said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A passenger took up the book and queried as to the author. The proprietor said, there were two;'-to which the answer of the unknown was, Ay, ay, -a joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and Hopkins.' Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the vile comparison' to have escaped being the Arcades ambo et cantare pares.""-E]

LARA.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

THE Serfs (1) are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord,
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again:

And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe,

(1) The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word Serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. [Lord Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of the Morea.-E.]

That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!-

With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern❜d men.
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone. (1)

III.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall..
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.

(1) [Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this section. -SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

IV.

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,

And whence they know not, why they need not guess;
They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er,
Not that he came, but came not long before :
No train is his beyond a single page,

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay;
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
The present dubious, or the past a dream.

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by

time;

His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,

Might be untaught him by his varied lot;

Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame :
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.

V.

And they indeed were changed-'tis quickly seen, Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been:

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,

And spake of passions, but of passion past: