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pointed by Heaven for this high honour. Let her sons catch, keep, and exercise to its full extent, that mighty spirit which proved too vast for dwelling more than thirty-six brief years in the frame of Byron. Losing him in his bodily presence, let them keep him in their minds. Let them carry on and complete the work of their deliverance; let them build Athens anew, and people her again with the chosen spirits of the earth; and when they have done this, let them raise upon the loftiest summit of the Acropolis, the monument of Lord Byron, bearing the chiselled likeness of a head, which found no superior among their own models, and left no equal among living men.
A CHARACTER OF LORD BY RON.
Amidst the general calmness of the political atmosphere, we have been stunned from another quarter by one of those death-notes which are pealed at intervals, as from an archangel's trumpet, to awaken the soul of a whole people at once. Lord Byron, who has so long and so amply filled the highest place in the public eye, has shared the lot of humanity. His Lordship died at Missolonghi on the 19th of April. That mighty genius which walked amongst men as something superior to ordinary mortality, and whose powers were beheld with wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if we knew not whether they were of good or of evil, is laid as soundly to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas never went beyond his daily task. The voice of just blame and of malignant censure are at once silenced; and we feel almost as if the great luminary of heaven had suddenly disappeared from the sky, at the moment when every telescope was levelled for the examination of the spots which dimmed its brightness. It is not now the question what were Byron's faults, what his mistakes 2 but, how is the blank which he has left in British literature to be filled up 3 Not, we fear, in one generation, which, among many highly gifted persons, has produced none who approach Byron in originality, the first attribute of genius. Only thirty six years old :—so much already done for immortality.—so much time remaining, as it seems to us short-sighted mortals, to maintain and to extend his fame, and to atone for errors in conduct and levities in composition; who will not grieve that such a race has been shortened, though not always keeping the straight path—such a light extinguished, though sometimes flaming to dazzle and to bewilder? One word on this ungrateful subject ere we quit it for ever.
The errors of Lord Byron arose neither from depravity of heart, — for nature had not committed the anomaly of uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral sense, nor from feelings dead to the admiration of virtue. No man had ever a kinder heart for sympathy, or a more open hand for the relief of distress; and no mind was ever more formed for the enthusiastic admiration of noble actions, provided he was convinced that the actors had proceeded upon disinterested principles. Lord Byron was totally free from the curse and degradation of literature, its jealousies, we mean, and its envy. But his wonderful genius was of a nature which disdained restraint even when restraint was most wholesome. When at school, the tasks in which he excelled were those only which he undertook voluntarily; and his situation as a young man of rank, with strong passions, and in the uncontrolled enjoyment of a considerable fortune, added to that impatience of strictures or coercion which was natural to him. As an Author, he refused to plead at the bar of criticism; as a man, he would not submit to be morally amenable to the tribunal of public opinion. Remonstrances from a friend, of whose intentions and kindness he was secure, had often great weight with him; but there were few who could venture on a task so difficult. Reproof he endured with impatience, and reproach hardened him in his error-so that he often resembled the gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the steel that wounds him. In the most painful crisis of his private life he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in such a degree, as almost to resemble the noble victim of the bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, than by the lance of his nobler, and, so to speak, his more legitimate antagonist. In a word, much of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done with the motive of Dryden's despot,
“To show his arbitrary power.”
It is needless to say that his was a false and prejudiced view of such a contest; and if the noble Bard gained a sort of triumph, by compelling the world to read his poetry, though mixed with baser matter, because it was his, he gave in return an unworthy triumph to the unworthy, besides deep sorrow to those whose applause, in his cooler moments, he most valued.
It was the same with his politics, which on several occasions assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to the constitution of his country; while, in fact, Lord Byron was in his own heart sufficiently sensible, not only of his privileges as a Briton, but of the distinction attending his high birth and rank, and was peculiarly sensitive of those shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, notwithstanding his having employed epigrams and all the petty war of wit, when such would have been much better abstained from, he would have been found, had a collision taken place between the aristocratic parties in the State, exerting all his energies in defence of that to which be naturally belonged. His own feeling on these subjects he has explained in the very last canto of Don Juan; and they are in entire harmony with the opinions which we have seen expressed in his correspondence, at a moment when matters appeared to approach a serious struggle in his native country.
We are not, however, Byron's apologists, for now, alas! he needs none. His excellencies will now be universally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not remembered in his epitaph. It will be recollected what a part he has sustained in British literature since the first appearance of Childe-Harold,—a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under the shade of his laurels, no living upon the resource of past reputation; none of that coddling and petty precaution, which little authors call “taking care of their fame.” Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and although his own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle, since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded the public estimates of his genius, yet he advanced to the honourable contest again and again and again, and came always off with distinction, almost always with complete triumph. As various in composition as Shakspeare himself (this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his Don Juan) he has embraced every topic of human life, and sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slightest to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones. There is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing Muse, although his most powerful efforts have certainly been dedicated to Melpomene. His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most prodigal use did not exhaust his powers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigour. Neither Childe Harold, nor any of the most beautiful of Byron's earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to be found scattered through the cantos of Don Juan, amidst verses which the author appears to have thrown off with an effort as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves to the wind. But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blossom It has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of Byron. We can scarce reconcile ourselves to the idea—scarce think that the voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so often on our ear, was often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with regret, but always with the deepest interest: All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest.
With a strong feeling of awful sorrow we take leave of the subject. Death creeps upon our most serious as well as upon our most idle employments; and it is a reflection solemn and gratifying, that he found our Byron in no moment of levity, but contributing his fortune, and hazarding his life, in behalf of a people only endeared to him by their past glories, and as fellow-creatures suffering under the yoke of a heathen oppressor. To have fallen in a crusade for freedom and humanity, as in olden times it would have been an atonement for the blackest crimes, may in the present be allowed to expiate greater follies than even exaggerated calumny has propagated against Byron.
Zwischen den beiden Dichtern bestand ein Verhältniss, durch dessen zarte Andeutung der Ueberlebende dem Abgeschiedenen ein wirdiges Denkmal gesetzt hat.
“Der deutsche Dichter, bis ins hohe Alter bemüht die Verdienste friherer and mitlebender Männer sorgsältig und rein anzuerkennen, indem er dies als das sicherste Mittel eigener Bildung von jeher betrachtete, musste wohl auch auf das grosse Talent des Lords, bald nach dessen erstem Erscheinen, aufmerksam werden, wie er denn auch die Fortschritte jener bedeutenden Leistungen und eines ununterbrochenen Wirkens unablässig begleitete. Hierbei war denn leicht zu bemerken, dass die allgemeine Anerkennung des dichterischen Verdienstes mit Vermehrung und Steigerung rasch auf einander folgender Productionen in gleichem Maase fortwuchs. Auch wire die diesseitige frohe Theilnahme hieran höchst vollkommen gewesen, hätte nicht der geniale Dichter durch leidenschaftliche Lebensweise und inneres Misbehagen sich selbst ein so geistreiches als gränzenloses Hervorbringen und seinen Freunden den reizenden
Genuss an seinem hohen Daseyn einigermassen verkümmert. Der deutsche
Ein freundlich Wort kommt, eines nach dem andern,
Es ruft uns auf zum Edelsten zu wandern,
Wie soll ich dem, den ich so lang begleitet,
Ihm, der sich selbst im Innersten bestreitet,
Wohl sey ihm doch, wenn er sich selbst empfindet!
Wenn Musenkraft die Schmerzen überwindet;
Weimar, den 22 Juny, 1823.
Es gelangte nach Genua, fand ihn aber nicht mehr daselbst; schon war der treffliche Freund abgesegelt und schien einem jeden schon weit entfernt; durch Stürme jedoch zurückgehalten, landete er in Livorno, wo ihn das herzlich gesendete gerade noch traf, um es im Augenblicke seiner Abfahrt, den 24 July 1823, mit einem reinen schön-gefühlten Blatt erwiedern zu können; als werthestes Zeugniss eines würdigen Verhältnisses unter den kostbarsten Documenten vom Besitzer aufzubewahren. So sehr uns nun ein solches Blatt erfreuen und rühren und zu der schönsten Lebenshoffnung aufregen musste, so erhält es gegenwärtig durch das unzeitige Ableben des hohen Schreibenden den grössten schmerzlichsten Werth, indem es die allgemeine Trauer der Sitten- und Dichterwelt über seinen Verlust für uns leider ganz insbesondere schärft, die wir nach vollbrachtem grossen Bemühen hoffen durften, den vorzüglichsten Geist, den glücklich erworbenen Freund und zugleich den menschlichsten Sieger, persönlich zu begrüssen. Nun aber erhebt uns die Ueberzeugung, dass seine Nation, aus dem, theilweise gegen ihn aufbrausenden, tadelnden, scheltenden Taumel plötzlich zur Nüchternheit erwachen und allgemein begreifen werde, dass alle Schalen und Schlacken der Zeit und des Individuums, durch welche sich auch der beste hindurch und heraus zu arbeiten hat, nur augenblicklich, vergänglich und hinfällig gewesen, wogegen der staunungswürdige Ruhm, zu dem er sein Vaterland für jetzt und künftig erhebt, in seiner Herrlichkeit gränzenlos und in seinen Folgen unberechenbar bleibt. Gewiss, diese Nation, die sich so vieler grosser Namen rühmen darf, wird ihn verklärt zu denjenigen stellen, durch die sie sich immerfort selbst zu ehren hat."
LORD BY RON'S LAST LINES.
"Tis time this heart should be unmoved | The sword, the banner, and the field,
Since others it has ceased to move; Glory and Greece around us see: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, The Spartan borne upon his shield Still let me love. Was not more free. My days are in the yellow leaf; Awake! not Greece–she is awake!– The flowers and fruits of love are gone: Awake my spirit–think through whom The worm, the canker and the grief, My life-blood tastes its parent lake – Are mine alone. And then strike home! The fire that in my bosom preys I tread reviving passions down, Is like to some volcanic isle; Unworthy Manhood –unto thee No torch is kindled at his blaze– Indifferent should the smile or frown A funeral pile. Of beauty be. The hope, the fears, the jealous care, If thou regret thy youth–why live?– The exalted portion of the pain The land of honourable death And power of love I cannot share, Is here–up to the field, and give But wear the chain. Away thy breath! But 'tis not here–it is not here– Seek out –less often sought than found– Such thoughts should shake my soul, „Ä I10' IOW – Then look around, and choose thy ground, Where glory seals the hero's bier, And take thy rest.
Or binds his brow. Missolunghi, February, 1824.