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"When from her father's body she arose,

Her cheek was flush'd, and in her eyes there beam'd
A wilder brightness. On the Goth she gaz'd!
While underneath the emotions of that hour
Exhausted life gave way! O God!' she said,
Lifting her hands, thou hast restor'd me all, .
All.. in one hour!'... and around his neck she
[ven!'

threw

433

"In this, and all things else,'

Pelayo answer'd, looking wistfully
Then Rod' rick saw that he was known-and turn'd
Upon the Goth, 'thy pleasure shall be done!'
His head away in silence. But the old man
Laid hold upon his bridle, and look'd up
In his master's face-weeping and silently!
Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took
My good Siverian, go not thou this day
His hand, and bending down towards him, said,
To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!
Thou art past the age for combats; and with whom
Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me,
If thou wert gone?'"'—p. 330.

He then borrows the defensive armour of this faithful servant; and taking a touching and affectionate leave of him, vaults again on the back of Orelio; and placing himself without explanation in the van of the army, leads them on to the instant assault. The renegade leaders fall on all sides beneath his resistless blows.

[well! known so

"And in the heat of fight, Rejoicing and forgetful of all else, Set up his cry as he was wont in youth, Her arms and cried, My Roderick! mine in Hea-ROD RICK THE GOTH!'... his war-cry, Groaning, he claspt her close! and in that act Pelayo eagerly took up the word, And agony her happy spirit fled !"-p. 313. And shouted out his kinsman's name belov'd, 'Rod'rick the Goth! Rod'rick and Victory! The Last Book describes the recognition Rodrick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth; and exploits of Roderick in the last of his bat- Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field Urban repeated it; and through his ranks tles. After the revolt of Julian's army, Orpas, of his great victory, when Witiza fell, by whose counsels it had been chiefly occa- With louder acclamations had that name sioned, is sent forward by the Moorish leader, Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven." to try to win them back; and advances in front of the line, demanding a parley, mounted on the beautiful Orelio, the famous war horse of Roderick, who, roused at that sight, obtains leave from Pelayo to give the renegade his answer; and after pouring out upon him some words of abuse and scorn, seizes the reins of his trusty steed; and

"How now,' he cried, 'Orelio! old companion,.. my good horse!'.. Off with this recreant burthen!'. And with that He rais'd his hand, and rear'd, and back'd the steed, To that remember'd voice and arm of power Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell, Violently thrown; and Roderick over him, Thrice led, with just and unrelenting hand, The trampling hoofs. Go, join Witiza now, Where he lies howling,' the avenger cried, 'And tell him Roderick sent thee !'"-pp. 318, 319. He then vaults upon the noble horse; and fitting Count Julian's sword to his grasp, rushes in the van of the Christian army into the thick array of the Infidel,-where, unarmed as he is, and clothed in his penitential robes of waving black, he scatters death and terror around him, and cuts his way clean through the whole host of his opponents. He there descries the army of Pelayo advancing to cooperate; and as he rides up to them with his wonted royal air and gesture, and on his wellknown steed of royalty, both the King and Siverian are instantaneously struck with the apparition; and marvel that the weeds of penitence should so long have concealed their Sovereign. Roderick, unconscious of this recognition, briefly informs them of what has befallen, and requests the honourable rites of Christian sepulture for the unfortunate Julian and his daughter.

55

All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
"O'er the field it spread,
Mountains, and rocks, and vales re-echo'd round;
And he rejoicing in his strength rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword; and
[smote,
And trampled down! and still at every blow
And overthrew, and scatter'd, and destroy'd,
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth.
'Rod'rick the Goth! Rod'rick and Victory!
Rod'rick and Vengeance !'"-pp. 334, 335.

The carnage at length is over, and the field is won!-but where is he to whose name and example the victory is owing?

-"Upon the banks

Of Sella was Orelio found; his legs
And flanks incarnadin'd, his poitral smear'd
With froth, and foam, and gore, his silver mane
Aspers'd like dew-drops: trembling there he stood
Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair,
His tremulous voice far-echoing loud and shrill;
From the toil of battle; and at times sent forth
A frequent anxious cry, with which he seem'd
To call the master whom he lov'd so well,
And who had thus again forsaken him.
Siverian's helm and cuirass on the grass
Clotted with blood! But where was he whose hand
Lay near; and Julian's sword, its hilt and chain
Had wielded it so well that glorious day? ...
Days, months, and years, and generations pass'd,

Within a hermitage near Viseu's walls,
And centuries held their course, before, far off
A humble Tomb was found, which bore inscrib'd
In ancient characters, King Rod'rick's name!"

pp. 339, 340.

our readers' opinion of this poem; and though These copious extracts must have settled they are certainly taken from the better parts of it, we have no wish to disturb the forcible impression which they must have been the means of producing. Its chief fault undoubtedly is the monotony of its tragic and solemn

tone-the perpetual gloom with which all its scenes are overcast-and the tediousness with which some of them are developed. There are many dull passages, in short, and a considerable quantity of heavy reading-some silliness, and a good deal of affectation. But the beauties, upon the whole, preponderate; and these, we hope, speak for themselves in the passages we have already extracted.

The versification is smooth and melodious, though too uniformly drawn out into long and linked sweetness. The diction is as usual more remarkable for copiousness than force; and though less defaced than formerly with phrases of affected simplicity and infantine

pathos, is still too much speckled with strange words; which, whether they are old or new, are not English at the present day-and we hope never will become so. What use or ornament does Mr. Southey expect to derive for his poetry from such words as avid and aureate, and auriphrygiate? or leman and weedery, frequentage and youthhead, and twenty more as pedantic and affected? What good is there either, we should like to know, in talking of "oaken galilees," or "incarnadined poitrals," or "all-able Providence," and such other points of learning?-If poetry is intended for general delight, ought not its language to be generally intelligible?

(December, 1816.)

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third. By LORD BYRON. 8vo. pp. 79. London: 1816. The Prisoner of Chillon, and other Poems. By LORD BYRON. 8vo. pp. 60. London: 1816.*

Ir the finest poetry be that which leaves | strong emotion-the fire and air alone of our the deepest impression on the minds of its human elements. readers-and this is not the worst test of its excellence-Lord Byron, we think, must be allowed to take precedence of all his distinguished contemporaries. He has not the variety of Scott-nor the delicacy of Campbellnor the absolute truth of Crabbe-nor the polished sparkling of Moore; but in force of diction, and inextinguishable energy of sentiment, he clearly surpasses them all. "Words that breathe, and thoughts that burn," are not merely the ornaments, but the common staple of his poetry; and he is not inspired or impressive only in some happy passages, but through the whole body and tissue of his composition. It was an unavoidable condition, perhaps, of this higher excellence, that his scene should be narrow, and his persons few. To compass such ends as he had in view, it was necessary to reject all ordinary agents, and all trivial combinations. He could not possibly be amusing, or ingenious, or playful; or hope to maintain the requisite pitch of interest by the recitation of sprightly adventures, or the opposition of common characters. To produce great effects, in short, he felt that it was necessary to deal only with the greater passions with the exaltations of a daring fancy, and the errors of a lofty intellect-with the pride, the terrors, and the agonies of

I have already said so much of Lord Byron with reference to his Dramatic productions, that I cannot now afford to republish more than one other paper on the subject of his poetry in general: And I se. lect this, rather because it refers to a greater variety of these compositions, than because it deals with such as are either absolutely the best, or the most characteristic of his genius. The truth is, however, that all his writings are characteristic; and lead, pretty much alike, to those views of the dark and the bright parts of his nature, which have led me, I fear (though almost irresistibly) into observations more personal to the character of the author, than hould generally be permitted to a mere literary

censor.

In this respect, and in his general notion of the end and the means of poetry, we have sometimes thought that his views fell more in with those of the Lake poets, than of any other existing party in the poetical commonwealth: And, in some of his later productions especially, it is impossible not to be struck with his occasional approaches to the style and manner of this class of writers. Lord Byron, however, it should be observed, like all other persons of a quick sense of beauty, and sure enough of their own originality to be in no fear of paltry imputations, is a great mimic of styles and manners, and a great borrower of external character. He and Scott, accordingly, are full of imitations of all the writers from whom they have ever derived gratification; and the two most original writers of the age might appear, to superficial observers, to be the most deeply indebted to their predecessors. In this particular instance, we have no fault to find with Lord Byron: For undoubtedly the finer passages of Wordsworth and Southey have in them wherewithal to lend an impulse to the utmost ambition of rival genius; and their diction and manner of writing is frequently both striking and original. But we must say, that it would afford us still greater pleasure to find these tuneful gentlemen returning the compliment which Lord Byron has here paid to their talents; and forming themselves on the model rather of his imitations, than of their own originals.-In those imitations they will find that, though he is sometimes abundantly mystical, he never, or at least very rarely, indulges in absolute nonsense-never takes his lofty flights upon mean or ridiculous occasions—and, above all, never dilutes his strong concep tions, and magnificent imaginations, with a flood of oppressive verbosity. On the con trary, he is, of all living writers, the most concise and condensed; and, we would fain

hope, may go far, by his example, to redeem | by one character-not only in all the acts of the great reproach of our modern literature- each several drama, but in all the different its intolerable prolixity and redundance. In dramas of the series; and, grand and imhis nervous and manly lines, we find no elab-pressive as it is, we feel at last that these very orate amplification of common sentiments-qualities make some relief more indispensable, no ostentatious polishing of pretty expres- and oppress the spirits of ordinary mortals sions; and we really think that the brilliant with too deep an impression of awe and resuccess which has rewarded his disdain of pulsion. There is too much guilt in short, and those paltry artifices, should put to shame for too much gloom, in the leading character;— ever that puling and self-admiring race, who and though it be a fine thing to gaze, now can live through half a volume on the stock and then, on stormy seas, and thunder-shaken of a single thought, and expatiate over divers mountains, we should prefer passing our days fair quarto pages with the details of one te-in sheltered valleys, and by the murmur of dious description. In Lord Byron, on the con- calmer waters. trary, we have a perpetual stream of thick- We are aware that these metaphors may be coming fancies-an eternal spring of fresh- turned against us and that, without metablown images, which seem called into exist-phor, it may be said that men do not pass ence by the sudden flash of those glowing their days in reading poetry-and that, as they thoughts and overwhelming emotions, that may look into Lord Byron only about as often struggle for expression through the whole flow as they look abroad upon tempests, they have of his poetry and impart to a diction that is no more reason to complain of him for being often abrupt and irregular, a force and a charm grand and gloomy, than to complain of the which frequently realise all that is said of in- same qualities in the glaciers and volcanoes spiration. which they go so far to visit. Painters, too, With all these undoubted claims to our it may be said, have often gained great repuadmiration, however, it is impossible to deny tation by their representations of tigers and that the noble author before us has still some- others ferocious animals, or of caverns and thing to learn, and a good deal to correct. He banditti-and poets should be allowed, withis frequently abrupt and careless, and some- out reproach, to indulge in analogous exertimes obscure. There are marks, occasion-cises. We are far from thinking that there is ally, of effort and straining after an emphasis, which is generally spontaneous; and, above all, there is far too great a monotony in the moral colouring of his pictures, and too much repetition of the same sentiments and maxims. He delights too exclusively in the delineation of a certain morbid exaltation of character and feeling-a sort of demoniacal sublimity, not without some traits of the ruined Archangel. He is haunted almost perpetually with the image of a being feeding and fed upon by violent passions, and the recollections of the catastrophes they have occasioned: And, though worn out by their past indulgence, unable to sustain the burden of an existence which they do not continue to animate:-full of pride, and revenge, and obduracy-disdaining life and death, and mankind and himself -and trampling, in his scorn, not only upon the falsehood and formality of polished life, but upon its tame virtues and slavish devotion: Yet envying, by fits, the very beings he despises, and melting into mere softness and compassion, when the helplessness of childhood or the frailty of woman make an appeal to his generosity. Such is the person with whom we are called upon almost exclusively to sympathise in all the greater productions of this distinguished writer:-In Childe Harold -in the Corsair-in Lara-in the Siege of Corinth in Parisina, and in most of the smaller pieces.

no weight in these considerations; and feel how plausibly it may be said, that we have no better reason for a great part of our complaint, than that an author, to whom we are already very greatly indebted, has chosen rather to please himself, than us, in the use he makes of his talents.

This, no doubt, seems both unreasonable and ungrateful: But it is nevertheless true, that a public benefactor becomes a debtor to the public; and is, in some degree, responsible for the employment of those gifts which seem to be conferred upon him, not merely for his own delight, but for the delight and improvement of his fellows through all generations. Independent of this, however, we think there is a reply to the apology. A great living poet is not like a distant volcano, or an occasional tempest. He is a volcano in the heart of our land, and a cloud that hangs over our dwellings; and we have some reason to complain, if, instead of genial warmth and grateful shade, he voluntarily darkens and inflames our atmosphere with perpetual fiery explosions and pitchy vapours. Lord Byron's poetry, in short, is too attractive and too famous to lie dormant or inoperative; and, therefore, if it produce any painful or pernicious effects, there will be murmurs, and ought to be suggestions of alteration. Now, though an artist may draw fighting tigers and hungry lions in as lively and natural a way as It is impossible to represent such a charac- he can, without giving any encouragement to ter better than Lord Byron has done in all human ferocity, or even much alarm to human these productions-or indeed to represent any fear, the case is somewhat different, when a thing more terrible in its anger, or more attrac-poet represents men with tiger-like dispositive in its relenting. In point of effect, we readily admit, that no one character can be more poetical or impressive:-But it is really too much to find the scene perpetually filled

tions:-and yet more so, when he exhausts the resources of his genius to make this terrible being interesting and attractive, and to represent all the lofty virtues as the natural

allies of his ferocity. It is still worse when however, to dwell upon observations so general-and we shall probably have better means of illustrating these remarks, if they are really well founded, when we come to speak of the particular publications by which they have now been suggested.

he proceeds to show, that all these precious gifts of dauntless courage, strong affection, and high imagination, are not only akin to guilt, but the parents of misery;-and that those only have any chance of tranquillity or happiness in this world, whom it is the object of his poetry to make us shun and despise. These, it appears to us, are not merely errors in taste, but perversions of morality; and, as a great poet is necessarily a moral teacher, and gives forth his ethical lessons, in general with far more effect and authority than any of his graver brethren, he is peculiarly liable to the censures reserved for those who turn the means of improvement to purposes of corruption.

We had the good fortune, we believe, to be among the first who proclaimed the rising of a new luminary, on the appearance of Childe Harold on the poetical horizon,—and we pursued his course with due attention through several of the constellations. If we have lately omitted to record his progress with the same accuracy, it is by no means because we have regarded it with more indifference, or supposed that it would be less interesting to the public-but because it was so extremely conspicuous as no longer to require the notices of an official observer. In general, we do not think it necessary, nor indeed quite fair, to oppress our readers with an account of works, which are as well known to them as to ourselves; or with a repetition of sentiments in which all the world is agreed. Wherever, a work, therefore, is very popular, and where the general opinion of its merits appears to be substantially right, we think ourselves at liberty to leave it out of our chronicle, without incurring the censure of neglect or inattention. A very rigorous application of this maxim might have saved our readers the trouble of reading what we now write-and, to confess the truth, we write it rather to gratify ourselves, than with the hope of giving them much information. At the same time, some short notice of the progress of such a writer ought, perhaps, to appear in his contemporary journals, as a tribute due to his eminence;-and a zealous critic can scarcely set about examining the merits of any work, or the nature of its reception by the public, without speedily discovering very urgent cause for his admonitions, both to the author and his admirers.

It may no doubt be said, that poetry in general tends less to the useful than the splendid qualities of our nature-that a character poetically good has long been distinguished from one that is morally so-and that, ever since the time of Achilles, our sympathies, on such occasions, have been chiefly engrossed by persons whose deportment is by no means exemplary; and who in many points approach to the temperament of Lord Byron's ideal hero. There is some truth in this suggestion also. But other poets, in the first place, do not allow their favourites so outrageous a monopoly of the glory and interest of the piece -and sin less therefore against the laws either of poetical or distributive justice. In the second place, their heroes are not, generally, either so bad or so good as Lord Byron's -and do not indeed very much exceed the standard of truth and nature, in either of the extremes. His, however, are as monstrous and unnatural as centaurs, and hippogriffs and must ever figure in the eye of sober reason as so many bright and hateful impossibilities. But the most important distinction is, that the other poets who deal in peccant heroes, neither feel nor express that ardent affection for them, which is visible in the Our last particular account was of the Corwhole of this author's delineations; but mere- sair;-and though from that time to the publy make use of them as necessary agents in lication of the pieces, the titles of which we the extraordinary adventures they have to have prefixed, the noble author has produced detail, and persons whose mingled vices and as much poetry as would have made the forvirtues are requisite to bring about the catas- tune of any other person, we can afford to trophe of their story. In Lord Byron, how- take but little notice of those intermediate ever, the interest of the story, where there performances; which have already passed happens to be one, which is not always the their ordeal with this generation, and are case, is uniformly postponed to that of the fairly committed to the final judgment of poscharacter itself-into which he enters so deep-terity. Some slight reference to them, howly, and with so extraordinary a fondness, that ever, may be proper, both to mark the prohe generally continues to speak in its lan-gress of the author's views, and the history guage, after it has been dismissed from the of his fame. stage; and to inculcate, on his own authority, the same sentiments which had been previously recommended by its example. We do not consider it as unfair, therefore, to say that Lord Byron appears to us to be the zealous apostle of a certain fierce and magnificent misanthropy; which has already saddened his poetry with too deep a shade, and not only led to a great misapplication of great talents, but contributed to render popular some very false estimates of the constituents of human happiness and merit. It is irksome,

LARA was obviously the sequel of the Corsair-and maintained, in general, the same tone of deep interest, and lofty feeling; though the disappearance of Medora from the scene deprives it of the enchanting sweetness, by which its terrors were there redeemed, and make the hero on the whole less captivating. The character of Lara, too, is rather too laboriously finished, and his nocturnal en counter with the apparition is worked up too ostentatiously. There is infinite beauty in the sketch of the dark page-and in many of

the moral or general reflections which are
interspersed with the narrative. The death
of Lara, however, is by far the finest pas-
sage in the poem, and is fully equal to any
thing else which the author has ever written.
Though it is not under our immediate cog-
nisance, we cannot resist the temptation of
transcribing the greater part of the passage
in which the physical horror of the event,
though described with a terrible force and
fidelity, is both relieved and enhanced by the
beautiful pictures of mental energy and re-
deeming affection with which it is combined.
Our readers will recollect, that this gloomy
and daring chief was mortally wounded in
battle, and led out of it, almost insensible, by
that sad and lovely page, whom no danger
could ever separate from his side. On his re-
treat, slaughter and desolation falls on his
disheartened followers; and the poet turns
from the scene of disorder-

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene,
Where but for him that strife had never been,
A breathing but devoted warrior lay:
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away!
His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side,
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak; but motions him 'tis vain,
And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage,
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees,
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim,'
Held all the light that shone on earth for him!

"The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field,
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield;
They would remove him; but they see 'twere vain,
And he regards them with a calm disdain,
That rose to reconcile him with his fate,
And that escape to death from living hate:
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed,
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed,
And questions of his state: He answers not;
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot,
And turns to Kaled:-each remaining word,
They understood not, if distinctly heard;
His dying tones are in that other tongue,
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung,"
Their words though faint were many-from the tone
Their import those who heard could judge alone;
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's
death

[&c.

More near than Lara's, by his voice and breath;
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke

[near:

The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke;
But Lara's voice though low, at first was clear
And calm, till murm'ring death gasp'd hoarsely
But from his visage little could we guess,
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless,
Save that when struggling nearer to his last,
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast;
And once as Kaled's answ'ring accents ceast,
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East.—

"But gasping heav'd the breath that Lara drew,
And dull the film along his dim eye grew;
His limbs stretch'd flutt'ring, and his head dropp'd
[o'er
The weak, yet still untiring knee that bore!
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart-
It beats no more! but Kaled will not part
With the cold grasp but feels, and feels in vain,
For that faint throb which answers not again.

'It beats!' Away, thou dreamer! he is gone!
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.
The haughty spirit of that humble clay;
"He gaz'd, as if not yet had pass'd away
And those around have rous'd him from his trance,
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance;
And when, in raising him from where he bore
He saw the head his breast would still sustain,
Within his arms the form that felt no more,
Roll down, like earth to earth, upon the plain!
He did not dash himself thereby; nor tear
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair,
But strove to stand and gaze; but reel'd and fell,
Scarce breathing more than that he lov'd so well!
The breast of Man such trusty love may breathe!
Than that He lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd
The secret, long and yet but half-conceal'd;
In baring to revive that lifeless breast,
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest!
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame-
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?"

We must stop here;-but the whole sequel of the poem is written with equal vigour and feeling; and may be put in competition with any thing that poetry has ever produced, in point either of pathos or energy.

in

The SIEGE OF CORINTH is next in the order
too visible a striving after effect, and not very
of time; and though written, perhaps, with
well harmonised in all its parts, we cannot
help regarding it as a magnificent composi-
tion. There is less misanthropy in it than
up of alternate representations of soft and
of the rest; and the interest is made
any
mult, and terrors, and intoxication of war.
solemn scenes and emotions-and of the tu-
These opposite pictures are perhaps too vio-
lently contrasted, and, in some parts, too
harshly coloured; but they are in general
exquisitely designed, and executed with the
utmost spirit and energy. What, for in-
stance, can be finer than the following night-
piece? The renegade had left his tent in
moody musing, the night before the final
assault on the Christian walls.

"Tis midnight! On the mountain's brown
The cold, round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters; blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur'd meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow'd on the waves;
The banners droop'd along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill,
And echo answer'd from the hill,
And the wide hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air

In midnight call to wonted prayer.”—

The transition to the bustle and fury of the morning muster, as well as the moving picture of the barbaric host, is equally admirable.

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