burst on modern Greece contrasted with its ancient glory, and the exquisitely pathetic and beautiful comparison of the same country to the human frame bereft of life: Picture of Modern Greece. He who hath bent him o'er the dead, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, The rapture of repose that's there The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek And-but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; That parts not quite with parting breath, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth Which gleams-but warms no more its cherished earth! The Prisoner of Chillon' is also natural and affecting: the story is painful and hopeless, but it is told with inimitable tenderness and simplicity. The reality of the scenes in 'Don Juan' must strike every reader. Byron, it is well known, took pains to collect his materials. His account of the shipwreck is drawn from narratives of actual occurrences, and his Grecian pictures, feasts, dresses, and holiday pastimes, are literal transcripts from life. Coleridge thought the character of Lambro, and especially the description of his return, the finest of all Byron's efforts; it is more dramatic and lifelike than any other of his numerous paintings. Haidee is also the most captivating of all his heroines. His Gulnares and Medoras, his Corsairs and dark mysterious personages— Linked with one virtue and a thousand crimes are monstrosities in nature, and do not possess one tithe of the interest or permanent poetical beauty that centres in the lonely residence in the Cyclades. The English descriptions in 'Juan' are greatly inferior. There is a palpable falling off in poetical power, and the peculiar prejudices and forced ill-natured satire of the poet are brought prominently forward. Yet even here we have occasionally a flash of the carly light that 'led astray.' The sketch of Aurora Raby is graceful and interesting compared with Haidee, it is something like Fielding's Amelia coming after Sophia Western; and Newstead Abbey is described with a clearness and beauty not unworthy the author of 'Childe Harold.' The Epicurean philosophy of the Childe' is visible in every page of 'Don Juan,' but it is no longer grave, dignified, and misanthropical: it is mixed up with wit, humour, the keenest penetration, and the most astonishing variety of expression, from colloquial carelessness and ease, to the highest and deepest tones of the lyre. The poet has the power of Mephistophiles over the scenes and passions of human life and society-disclosing their secret workings, and stripping them of all conventional allurements and disguises. Unfortunately, his knowledge is more of evil than of good. The distinctions between virtue and vice had been broken down or obscured in his own mind, and they are undistinguishable in 'Don Juan.’ Early sensuality had tainted his whole nature. He portrays generous emotions and moral feelings-distress, suffering, and pathos-and then dashes them with burlesque humor, wild profanity, and unseasonable mockery. In 'Childe Harold' we have none of this moral anatomy, or its accompanying licentiousness; but there is abundance of scorn and defiance of the ordinary pursuits and ambition of mankind. The fairest portions of the earth are traversed in a spirit of bitterness and desolation by one satiated with pleasure, contemning society, the victim of a dreary and hopeless scepticism. Such a character would have been repulsive if the poem had not been adorned with the graces of animated description, and original and striking sentiment. The poet's sketches of Spanish and Grecian scenery, and his glimpses of the life and manners of the classic mountaineers, are as true as were ever transferred to canvas; and not less striking are the meditations of the Pilgrim on the particular events which adorned or cursed the soil he trod. Thus, on the field of Albuera, he conjures up a noble image: Red Battle-The Demon of War. Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock, Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. In surveying the ruins of Athens, the spirit of Byron soars to its loftiest flight, picturing its fallen glories, and indulging in the most touching and magnificent strain of his sceptical philosophy. Ancient Greece. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and passed away-is this the whole? A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon, and the sophist's stole, Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Sun of the morning, rise! approach you here! Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know's not, reck'st not, to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound: He fell, and falling, nations mourned around: Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell. Why, even the worm at last disdains her shattered cell. Look on this broken arch. its ruined wall, The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, And passion's host, that never brooked control: Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! With those who made our mortal labours light! The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! The third canto of 'Childe Harold' is more deeply imbued with a love of nature than any of his previous productions. A new power had been imparted to him on the shores of the 'Leman lake.' He had just escaped from the strife of London and his own domestic unhappiness, and his conversations with Shelley might have turned him more strongly to this pure poetical source. The poetry of Wordsworth had also unconsciously lent its influence. An evening scene by the side of the lake is thus exquisitely described: Lake Leman (Geneva). Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, To waft me from distraction; once I loved That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night; and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes At intervals, some bird from out the brakes, But that is fancy, for the star-light dews Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. A forcible contrast to this still scene is then given in a brief descrip tion of the same landscape during a thunder-storm: The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night, Of a dark eye in woman! Far along From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, And this is in the night: most glorious night! And now again 'tis black-and now the glee Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. In the fourth canto there is a greater throng of images and objects. The poet opens with a sketch of the peculiar beauty and departed greatness of Venice, rising from the sea, with her tiara of proud towers' in airy distance. He then resumes his pilgrimage-moralises on the scenes of Petrarch and Tasso, Dante and Boccaccio-and visits the lake of Thrasimene and the temple of Clitumnus. Temple of Citumnus. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river-nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect and most clear! Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! And on thy happy shore a temple still, |