THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON.

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of his death, the cause for which he died, and which (whatever may be the merits or demerits of modern Greece) was to him the cause of truth and freedom, will combine to mix up as much of love for his character, in all who shall hereafter consider it, as there is of regret for his death in the minds of those who actually knew him.

It is a matter of great surprise that, among the many English bards now living, no attempt has been made to commemorate in verse (which the occasion would have made almost as immortal as his own,) that event, which, more than any other of a like nature, plunged the whole nation into grief.

Lycidas is dead! dead ere his prime.

Young Lycidas! and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.'

And yet, rife as monodies are upon less important and imperious occasions, none have been produced on the death of Lord Byron.

It is not,

There is, however, one poem extant, in which a poet, second only to the mighty dead, has done honour to his character. perhaps, less creditable to the heart and to the judgment of that poet, that this testimony to his friend's talents, and to the goodness of his disposition, was made public during Lord Byron's life. Even envy itself can afford to praise a dead rival; but to assign to a living one his true eminence, and to express aloud an opinion like that which Mr. Moore avowed respecting Lord Byron, while he was the object of attack for critics of all degrees, from the blood-hounds of the great Reviews down to the yelping curs of the smaller packs, was really honorable and becoming.

The following verses were published by Mr. Moore in Fables for the Holy Alliance,' and are called Reflectious when about to read the Memoirs of Lord Byron, written by himself,' which it will be recollected were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, and which that gentleman consented to have destroyed since his death:

'Let me, a inoment,-ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-
As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key

Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven

Let me, a moment, think what thousands live

O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give,

THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON.

Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know-and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like Psaphon's birds, speaking their master's name,
In every language, syllabled by Fame?

How all, whov'e felt the various spell combined
Within the circle of that splendid mind,

Like powers, derived from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,

Would burn to know when first the light awoke

In his young soul,-and, if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, raised

More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazed-
Would love to trace th' unfolding of that power,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er its first advance,

As did th' Egyptian traveller, when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathomed with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
They, too, who, 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,

As if the star of bitterness, which fell

On earth of old, had touched them with its beams
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
And which, even now, struck as it is with blight—
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light—
How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays
Of a bright ruined spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,

What desolating grief, what wrongs, had driven

That noble nature into cold eclipse

Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quenched, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts!
Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Of scene and clime-th' adventures, bold and strange

The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told-
The loves, the feuds, thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand uplocks
His virtues as his failings-we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,

And enmities, like sun-touched snow, resigned-
Of fealty, cherished without change or chill,
In those who served him young, and serve him still-
Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart—
Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud,
Turn forth their silver lining' on the crowd,
This gifted being wraps himself in night,
And, keeping all that softens and adorns

And gilds his social nature hid from sight,

Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.'

The friendship which subsisted between Mr. Moore and Lord Byron was equally honorable to each. No two things could well be inore dissimilar than the courses which each of them had selected to run in their poetical careers, and yet, as far as they were both caudidates (and successful ones) for public approbation, they may be fairly said to have been rivals. They even, as we have before noticed, selected the same subject for the exercise of their talents; but not only was there no similarity in the manner of the execution, but the testimony which, in the publication of that poem, Mr. Moore bore to the genius of his brother-bard was highly commendable. It happens but too frequently in the annals of literature that the very circumstances which ought to attach men of letters to each other-for example, a similarity of pursuits, and feelings kindled from the same etherial fire-have the effect of raising barriers between them, and they never speak of each other but to carp at that fame to which they consider themselves to be solely entitled, and which to share with a rival is worse than not to possess at all. They can in common bear no rival near their thrones.' Mr. Moore is an honorable exception to this almost universal rule, and by his conduct to Lord Byron during his life, still more by the alinost fastidious respect which he has paid to his memory, has shown that he deserved the friendship of such a man, and that the exaltation of his mind is not wholly confined to his literary efforts.

The death of Lord Byron has, however, reconciled all opinions. Envy is dead, and that spirit of criticism which induced some persons to cavil at what they had neither hearts to feel nor heads to understand is at rest for ever. The bitterness of the grief which Lord Byron's decease occasioned has also lost much of its force, and it is now regarded only as a loss deep and irreparable, but one which must be endured. In the mean time his fame has soared to the highest point, and, in all the range of English poetry, there are few who claim a more brilliant place. In the memory of all who knew him he will live while they exist; and, when all who breathed the same air with him shall have gone to join him in the world which he now inhabits, his works will hold the same station as they now occupy in the minds of all men while the literature of England shall continue. This shall be really to live, and in this fame is the real triumph over the grave. He is not dead, he doth not sleep

He hath awakened from the dream of life:
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. We decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief

Convulse us, and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

THE END.