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with that good-tempered manner which he possesses, congratulated him upon his accession to his place in that House. Lord Byron looked at this time stiff) cold, and even displeased. Lord Eldon put out his hand frankly and warmly; Lord Byron requited his courtesy by merely putting the ends of his fingers into it. The Chancellor went back to (he woolsack; and Lord Byron, after lounging for a few minutes on one of the opposition benches, quilted the House. One of the noblemen in whom his talents and virtues had excited a high and disinterested affection, and who witnessed this odd scene with considerable pain, remonstrated with him upon the coolness with which he received the Lord-Chancellor's compliments. Lord Byron said, if he had done otherwise, it would have .been thought he meant to join the court party; but that he had resolved to have nothing to do with any of the parties then existing in England. He added, that he should now go abroad; awl a very short time elapsed before he put this intention into practice.

Probably Lord Carlisle has regretted that he thought fit to act with M ranch coldness, upon this occasion, to so near a relative: it is to be hoped that he has ; and, without meaning to imply any harsh reflection upon that nobleman, we are justified in adding that it is not the only occasion upon which Lord Byron's conduct has appeared improper for want of kind and careful advisers. In the third canto of 'Childe Harold,' from which this anecdote of Lord Byron's life has induced us to digress—we trust not uupleasingly to our reader—his lordship proved that he had forgiven the unkindness he had experienced; and to that poem we now recur.

The other stanzas, alluding to the grief of those who lost husbands, lovers, parents, children—all that were dearest to their hearts—in the 'laughter at Waterloo, are highly beautiful and affecting. Slill alluding to Major Howard, he says:

1 turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each.

And one as all, a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach

Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake.

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for: though the sound of Fame

May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake
The fever of vain longing; and the name
So honoured but assumes a stronger, hitterer, claim.

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn:

The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though masl.and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoarintss; the ruined wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
I The bars survive the captive they inthrall;

The day drags through though storms keep out the sun . ; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass

In every fragment multiplies, and makes
A thousand images of one that was,

The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
;' And thus the heart will do, which not forsakes,
Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold.

And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old.
Showing no visible sign, for such tilings are untold.

The apostrophe to Buonaparte is touching and true, and the recollection that the poet and the hero have since ahided the common lot of mortality adds to the impression which the verses must necessarily make upon every reader:

There sunk tiie greatest, nor the worst, of men,

Whose spirit, antithetically mixt,
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixt

{Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thon seek'st
Even now to reassume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

Conqueror and captive of the Earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name

Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became

The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert

\ A god unto thyself; nor less the same

To the astounded kingdoms all inert.
Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.

Ob, more or less than man—in high or low,

Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield;
Ad empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,
UBut govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,

However deeply in men's spirits skilled,
'I.'i',k through thine own, nor curb the lust of war.
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide

With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
la gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
'To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
v With a sedate and all-enduring eye;—

When Fortune fled her spoiled and favorite child,
'He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

The following stanzas might have been applied perhaps as forcibly to Lord Byron as to the dethroned emperor;

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fare
And motion of the soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medinm of desire;
\ And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
This makes the madmen who have made men mad

By their contagion; conquerors and kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
i Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things

Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs
And are themselves the fools to those they fool:

Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule:

!. Their breath is agitation, and their life

A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and higoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past.
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste

With its own flickering, or a sword laid by
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

At length the pilgrim tears himself from these gloomy subjects, and turns to the more delightful—and, ii: spile of his sternness, we believe more congenial—subject of the beauties of nature. The scenery of the Rhine awakes all the feelings which in a heart such as his must start, like the notes from a lyre under the sweepings of a master-hand, at the spell of such an assemblage of the beautiful and sublime—such

A blending of all beauties; streams and dells,

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, v ine,
And chiefless castles breathing stem farewells
From grey bat leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells.

Of all the poets which England—perhaps which the whole worldhas produced, Lord Byron most excels in the power of descrihing, in a few expressions of intense force, the picturesque and prominent features of local scenes. His lines are like sketches from the hand of a painter, who has at once feeling and skill enough to embody, in a few hasty strokes, an idea of the real picturesque, as true, and far more beautiful than the most minute and labored transcript of one in whom less of the liiv of true genins dwells. A whole volume, descrihing the scenery of the Rhine, could contain no more than lies in the lines last quoted. An ingot of gold may be beaten into a surface of almost any extent; bat leaf-gold is not, therefore, more val uabte than the solid metal.

The pilgrim wanders along the shores of this beautiful river, and devotes some of his verses, as he journeys, to the grey ruins which crovi: its rocky banks, and to the fendal barons who once inhahited them, anr whose wars have often discolored the swift waves. Soon afterwards there occurs a passage which has always seemed to us highly de,

liglitful, as well fur its own beauty as for the intimation it gives us that thegloomy wanderer was not wholly without consolation;—a notion •hich he did not fail to impress upon some of those people in England, j who thought he was entirely miserable, and who, he believed, wished him to remain so:

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust.

It is in vain that we would coldly gaze
On such as smile upon us; .the heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust

Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt,
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust

In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

And he had learned to love—I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood—

The helpless looks of blooming infancy,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued

With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude

Small power the nipped affections have to grow,
'in him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said.

Which unto his was bound by stronger ties
'Than the church links withal; and, though unwed,
That love was pure, and, far above disguise,
Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more

By peril, dreaded most in female eyes;
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour!

The tenderness of the epistle is exquisite:

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,

Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;

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