By those, that deepest feel, are ill exprest So feeble now-his mother's softness crept The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!' pp. 91-94, Why does Lord Byron select such views of nature for his studies? Why does he delight in giving being, shape, and utterance, chiefly to forms of terror and wildness? These are questions which are frequently asked, but which we should not have considered ourselves at liberty to reiterate, had not his Lordship, in the Dedicatory Preface, distinctly referred to such inquiries. This he has done in a way which seems the most likely to sanction the surmise, there abruptly evaded, that, in these gloomy creations of his fancy, he has but embodied the qualities and passions of a real existence: not, indeed, in that exact combination which composes the individual character, of which these shadowy beings are the semblances, but in separate or varied modifications, yet each, essentially, that living self. This surmise will be strengthened by his Lordship's appearing to take complacency in attracting to himself somewhat of those mingled feelings of admiration, pity, abhorrence, and sympathy, which he succeeds in awakening for his characters; as if that egotism, which is supposed to attach to the poet, could be solaced by a consciousness of possessing this unenviable interest in the minds of his readers, more soothing to the sullenness of intellectual pride, than the familiar caresses of affection. Or, perhaps, his Lordship wishes to merge his real character in that of the poet, and to substitute, in place of his conscious self, an imaginary representative bearing his name, with whose features the dark lays of his harp may seem more accordant, than with those of the satirist, or the lighter voluptuary. At any rate, it is with the poet only that we have to do. And here we cannot conceal, that we differ from those who have expressed regret, that Lord Byron has made choice of such subjects. It is no disparagement to his talents to presume, from this very choice, that, in no other, he would have displayed equal originality and depth of thought, or have preserved such fidelity to the truth of nature. He must, indeed, be deeply read in the' human heart, and a perfect master of its language, that could, with equal force, convey all the emotions and passions which expand or agitate it. Perhaps, the most difficult to pourtray, though not the best adapted for dramatic effect, are those of a tragic and less mixed character, which must have been felt by ourselves, in order to be understood sufficiently to conciliate our sympathy. The calm repose of evening sunshine is less picturesque, and far less easy to express on the canvas, than the bolder traits of a stormy sky. We think Lord Byron was right in selecting those subjects, which, from whatever accidental circumstance or turn of thought, he was most able to give with accuracy; and our thanks are due to him for the manner in which this has been executed. He has not, like Crabbe, given us living, disgusting anatomies of human nature; nor has he, like the man he calls his friend, arrayed Licentiousness, in the painted charms of sentiment, and thrown over her form, that voluptuous drapery which speaks more than exposure. He has exhibited human nature in the spirit of our best tragic writers, who drew their sketches from history, and, finished them from real life. The interest his characters awaken, is not of that kind, which leads us to view them as abstract personifications of the excellencies of our nature, and, with their feelings or fortunes, to identify our own. They come before us as distinct, historic personages, partaking of that common nature, and existing as outwardly from ourselves, and almost as really, as the living objects of daily communion; which we feel, therefore, quite at liberty to observe and scrutinize. This being the case, we conceive, that the characters which Lord Byron has exhibited, are calculated to subserve a highly moral tendency. If in any degree they may lessen our abhorrence of vice, by making our sympathy predominate over the principle, rather than by counteracting its influence, they, at the same time, deepen our conviction of the miseries inseparably connected with a departure from virtue. Did we wish, in the most impressive manner, to exhibit the comfortless, hopeless vacuity of the sceptic's heart, we would cite' Childe Harold' as an illustration; and, from the same volume, we would borrow the most thrilling confession that was ever wrung from the poisoned heart of a libertine, of the dregs which are left behind by the maddening draught of voluptuousness, that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see: The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; Our readers will doubtless have, in their recollection, the last 'Smile on--nor venture to unmask • Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.' 'The Giaour' abounds with passages of a scarcely less striking and instructive nature. We much doubt, indeed, if there be, in poetry itself, any moral efficiency of a nature calculated to reach those, whose passions indispose them to its reception. In this respect, it may, perhaps, be said of poetry as of music, that 'it feedeth the disposition which it findeth.' The thoughts which the lyrist stirs and quickens within the minds of others, and the feelings which he rouses, must partake of the nature in which they have their source;-must accord with the dispositions which permanently reside in the individual. If, then, there may be some persons so nearly akin to the characters which Lord Byron has pourtrayed, that they will exult to find the gloomy or depraved suggestions of their perverted minds, expressed with greater energy and distinctness than they had ever assumed to themselves, to behold the dark shades of their own thoughts deepened almost to sublimity;-and if they be tempted to consider that force or beauty of expression, as a justification of the sentiments it envelopes, we cannot, in fairness, admit, that such a tendency is necessarily deducible from his Lordship's productions. It is but justice to say, that there is nothing, so far as we recol lect, in his poems, which displays any design, or which is in itself calculated to corrupt the virtuous mind, to raise a guilty glow of pleasure, or to delude the imagination into a love of splendid crime. There is, at least, a highly moral lesson to be deduced, if the readers please, from his poetry. In the poem before us, especially, we discern much that favours this impression: there is, we think, more of virtuous sentiment distributed through its pages, than in the former poems, and something like an approximation, on some points, to right feeling. We give the following as examples: "My sole resources in the path I trod p. 55. "Were these-my bark-my sword-my love-my God! By this-how many lose not earth-but heaven! And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!' p. 58. We must make room for one more extract: it requires no comment from us. 'She stopp'd-threw back her dark far-floating hair, As if she late had bent her leaning head Above some object of her doubt or dread. That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, We have thought it unnecessary to say much on the subject of the genius, which is so richly displayed in this, as well as in Lord Byron's former works. Circumstances, have contributed to form the public opinion to a just appreciation of his powers: and we have already given our sentence upon this point. We have recognized an evident and rapid progression in his Lordship's intellectual character, at every successive interval of his public appearance. His first pretensions to fame, as George Lord Byron, a minor,' were, indeed, very slightly founded: there was little indication, in his early poems, of the eminence to which he was afterwards to attain. His, next appearance was as a satirist; the resource, in general, of unsuccessful talent, or of wounded pride. Of this production Lord Byron seems anxious to suppress all remembrance; and, certainly, the contrast which it would present to his later professions, and affectionate dedications, if rigidly compared, would be somewhat ludicrous and humiliating. There was, however, much in that production, which excited sanguine expectation. Again his Lordship retired behind the scenes, or rather from the stage; and, on his re-appearance, he seemed to have gained a head and shoulders in intellectual height, and to tower above his compeers; but his features bore the marks of the pilgrimage' which Childe Harold had, in the meanwhile, accomplished. The keen and bitter satirist had been matured into a moralist of kindred mood, but of darker spleen. The Giaour,' his Lordship's next production, displayed a power of thought, at least equal to any that had preceded it; and, passing over the lighter beauties of his next poem, we think the Corsair' a still more favourable exhibition of his Lordship's mental character. If we Lord Byron now threatens us with another recess. might be permitted to frame any hope, in relation to the circumstances of his future appearance, our respect for his Lordship's genius, and the interest which it imparts to his character, would lead us fervently to wish, that the next stage of his progress may conduct him to a point of mental elevation still higher than he has yet attained ;--or rather introduce him to a higher sphere, in which he may find objects more commensurate with the grasp of intellect and the energies of passion. Visionary as the prospect may be, we cannot resist the temptation to indulge ourselves, for a moment, in realizing the glorious emancipation which Christianity would induce on the faculties of so noble a mind. His Lordship must forgive us for characterizing |