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No. 243.

REVIEWS

Murray. WITH this volume commences the poetry of Lord Byron, and with it much of the interest which we feel in the illustrious poet. The memoir, extending through the six preceding volumes, is ample, and contains many vivid delineations and fearless discussions concerning men and manners, and, as it comes chiefly from the memorandums and letters of the poet, we may regard it almost as the work of his own hand. We cannot well desire to know more about Lord Byron than what Moore has revealed, and if he said less about his friend's character as a man and a poet than we could have wished, we are likely to be fully gratified on that point now, for the present volume abounds with new matter, and that of a most interesting kind, both in verse and poems are not only arranged prose. The according to the date of their composition, but on almost every page we have a running commentary, illustrating the text, explaining the circumstances under which the various poems were composed, and giving us agreeable glimpses of the noble poet, and his friends and companions. These notes are, in our estimation, very valuable: they are anecdotal, critical, historical, or biographical, as the occasion demands, and seem to be supplied by one who is well acquainted with polished life and popular literature, and who has the good sense to be brief as well as instructive. The editor gives the following short and clear account of what he has done and is doing

"The poetical works of Lord Byron, thus arranged, and illustrated from his own diaries and letters-(to many of which, as yet in MS., the Editor has had access),-and from the information of his surviving friends, who have in general answered every inquiry with prompt kindness, will now present the clearest picture of the history of the man, as they must ever form the noblest monument of his genius.

"Besides the juvenile miscellany of 1807, entitled, Hours of Idleness,' and the satire of 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' first published in 1809, the present volume embraces a variety of Occasional Pieces, many of them now first printed, written between 1807 and the summer of 1810. Its contents bring down, therefore, the poetical autobiography of Lord Byron, from the early days of Southwell and Harrow, to the time when he had seriously entered on the great work which fixed his place in the highest rank of English literature.

"Here the reader is enabled to take the river of his life' at its sources, and trace it gradually from the boyish regions of passionately tender friendships, innocent half-fanciful loves, and that vague melancholy which hangs over the first stirrings of ambition, until, widening and strengthening as it flows, it begins to appear discoloured with the bitter waters of thwarted

The Adieu.

Written under the impression that the Author would soon die.
Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through lda's path we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell
Unconscious of the day.

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,
Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.

Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,

These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime,

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Setheron home?

Hall of my Sires! a long farewell-
Yet why to thee adieu?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,
Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall

Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Eolian wings,

In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,
To retrospection dear.
Streamlet along whose rippling surge,
My youthful limbs were wont to urge

At noontide heat their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.

• Harrow.

↑ The river Grete, at Southwell.

And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd:
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear,
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn !

All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,
Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,-
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart:
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in glory's blaze;

But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream :
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd.
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay;
The meed of pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,
By nightly skies and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown,

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,
Although his meanest care.

Father of Light! to Thee I call,
My soul is dark within:

Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert the death of sin.

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calms't the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.

1807. [Now first published.] The next which we shall notice is in another strain: we are not, however, among those who prefer the gaiety of the poet to his seriousness:

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning,
"Sad is my verse," you say, "and yet no tear."
Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

May once be read-but never after:
Yet their effect's by no means tragic,
Although by far too dull for laughter.
But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain--
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.

March 8, 1807. [Now first published.] Many poets have bid a sportive farewell to the muse, and the world perhaps would have been deprived of little happiness had some, whom we shall not now name, been serious, when they thus took leave: we, however, know what the extent of our loss would be had Byron been in earnest when he bade Farewell to the Muse.

Thou power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return-alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er ; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweetThe present-which seals our eternal Adieu.

1807. [Now first published.]

On many inanimate things the world lavishes its affection because they are connected with the great heirs of fame: we have seen laurel leaves from Virgil's tomb-grass from Tasso's grave chips from Shakspeare's mulberry-tree-daisies from the churchyard sward where Burns lies-and twigs from Napoleon's willow: we suspect, however, that none of all these matters will be in more request than

the oak which Lord Byron planted with his own hand at Newstead, and on which he wrote the following lines:

To an Oak at Newstead.

Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,

And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years

On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages inay shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here will they say when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807. [Now first published.]

passage:-

"But may not at least the dark and gorgeous superstitions of India boast of undiminished strength as well as of venerable age? Antiquated as they are, can we affirm that they totter?-less so, it may be granted, than any other forms of false religion upon earth. They were born for longevity; they are the beings of the climate; almost as proper to it as its prodigious and venomous reptiles. But can it be said of these illusions, firm as they still seem, that they have not been placed in jeopardy during the last fifty years, and especially of late? Is there not even now, in the fanaticism of India, more of usage than of passion ?—and we well know that the very crisis of a profound

Romanism, comes on, when the enormities which once were cruel and sincere, begin to be simply loathsome and farcical. Besides, does not the strength of the religion of India consist in the credit of the Braminical order? The beard of the Bramin is the secret of its power; but, like the locks of Samson, may it not readily be lost? The credit of the Bramin rests upon the unnatural partition of the people by caste; and this partition is hastening to decay."

That the poet's oak is flourishing we have the editor's assurance in the following words— "Lord Byron, on his first arrival at New-religious system, such as Hindooism, such as stead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed; hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, 'Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place.'-' I hope not, sir,' replied the man: 'for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself. The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as 'THE BYRON OAK,' and promises to share in after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow."

It would be unjust to a meritorious pub

lisher were we to transfer to our columns

prose

more of the poetry of Byron or the notes of the editor: in the succeeding volumes we are promised many more snatches of verse and bits of criticism, for which we understand there are abundant materials; and we hear also, that something of a supplemental nature will be added from the pen of the editor of the Quarterly. If this be so, we would direct his attention to a note in the Edinburgh Review, which followed close on the publication of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' and where, if we remember rightly, the said poem was alluded to as a piece of dull assuming the aspect of verse. We wish also that he would print the whole of the critique from the Edinburgh: it began, we think, in the first edition of the Review, in the following words, "Who George Gordon Lord Byron, a minor, may be, we do not pretend to know," &c. The public is largely indebted to the publisher for this edition of a favourite auelegance and compact beauty of arrangement, thor: not only is it remarkable for external but it contains the only full and accurate account of the man, and the only complete collection of his poems and letters which has or can be published. It is also lavishly embellished.

The kindness of a friend now enables us to offer the reader a striking corroboration of this passage, in the periodicals and pamphlet which head this notice. The Enquirer' and the 'Hindoo Youth' are papers, the former printed twice a week, the latter occasionally, edited, in English, by a young Bramin; and of Hindoo youths, to examine for themselves their avowed object is to arouse the minds what hitherto they have been commanded to believe and perform without examination. Baboo Krishna Mohana Banerjea is a religious reformer: he is a Hindoo sceptic; and to make his countrymen sceptics, with regard to Hindooism, is the avowed intent of his literary undertaking. To those who cannot afford to subscribe for his journals, he offers them without charge. Additional interest is given by occasional extracts from English magazines and journals (we found various articles reprinted from the Athenæum); but the main, and by no means vaguely avowed object, is to attack the faith of Brahma. Our readers must not from this suppose that the editor therefore advocates Christianity: he is simply a sceptic-one in a state of doubt as to what he shall adopt, though in a state of certainty as to what he shall reject.

This attack on the Brahminical faith, though done in what strikes the English cerity. One of the addresses to Hindoo reader as a foreign manner, is often done with ingenuity, and most evidently with sin

from Macbeth, with the following pithy reYouths' contains the witches' incantation marks on it :

"After reading the above, you all will undoubtedly join in believing, that these are but the poet's inventions; your minds will have a certain sensation against the possibility of such

charms being practised; your feelings will impel | you to say they are all fictions;-but while you find it utterly impossible to believe that the throwing of these things into the cauldron, and the uttering of those sounds, are calculated to raise spirits and apparitions, you will, if you calmly reflect, find that you yourselves, in our enlightened age, are misled by priestcraft to believe the efficacy of ceremonies as absurd as the one illustrated by Shakspeare. If you grant the holiness of the Doorga Poojah and the other ceremonies observed by your parents and relations, you grant absurdities that, at least, are as palpable as these we have alluded to. The same reason that leads you to feel that the ingredients thrown into the cauldron are all false, ought also to convince you of the absurdity of believing that cow-dung has the power of purifying a God. If the ceremony performed by the witch is false, is it possible that the Bramin articulating a certain number of syllables can render a clod of earth a God?"

'The Persecuted' describes in dramatic scenes what 'The Enquirer' designs to effect by graver argument. It is not unamusing; and, bearing in mind that the author's knowledge of the English language depends solely on the education afforded him by the Hindoo College that he is under twenty-that he was brought up by men diametrically opposed in language, manners, and customs, to those in whose dialect he has written, it is certainly no despicable performance. The piece turns on the contrivances of the Bramins to get back, or to punish a young Hindoo, a leader of liberals otherwise heretics- otherwise beef-eaters-otherwise sceptics in the matter of Hindooism. Amongst other contrivances they go to the native editor of a newspaper; we extract part of two scenes:

"Scene-A Printing Office. "Lallchaud. Yes, well said, well said; write against the villain fearlessly-give biting touches respecting the growing heresy.

"Pundit. If it please you, sit.

"Lall. Then, of this occurrence, regarding that fellow. Expatiate upon it with freedom. Abuse the rascal as much as you possibly can without the imputation of a libel. Call him a drunkard.

66

Pun. I believe he is not a drunkard, though

a heretic.

"Lall. And what business have you to believe so, Sir? I tell you to write so, and want no philosophy from you. Be he in the habit of getting drunk or not, call him a drunkard.

"Pun. I will, Sir. I will hand you the page proofs this evening.

"Lall. Do so. (The Pundit retires.) I must have a careful eye upon myself. These young fellows will surely be mischievous; if their sentiments be generally imbibed, there is an end

of my paper.

Enter Turko Lunkar and Bydhabagis, (Bramins). "Turko. Hail, worthy Lallchaud. We have come to you, impelled by duty, and actuated by emotions, which we are proud to say we are capable of, respecting our holy religion.

Bydha. But more particularly by a fear of our pockets (aside).

"Lall. Well, you indeed deserve credit for your noble motives.

Bydha. For our love of rupees, anas, and pice more (aside).

"Turko. What think you of the strange things now transpiring? young fellows, disregarding every consideration, take beef! horrid! What is to be done for this? What wickedness! Gods! the reign of vice has commenced!

"Lall. I believe I understand what you mean. You speak of that circumstance respecting that cur of Mohadeb.

Bydha. We do, you have exactly hit it; what then now ought we to do?

"Lall. Why, raise false reports against these fellows exaggerate the least cause you may get -prejudice the people against them-utter their names with the most abusive epithets. Do all these-nay more: I am resolved to summon all rich men to a common assembly, and, laying these matters to a consideration, pass an order to Mohadeb to turn his son out. That shall be my duty.

"Turko. We admire your holy ardour for religion-we adore your feelings as a Hindoo -we thank your generous advocacy of our order.

Bydha. No street will we pass but by doing what you advised; no house will we go to without preaching against these fellows. So, with expressions of heartfelt thanks, we take our leave, confiding upon your noble nature for the preservation of our religion. (Exeunt).

"Lall. Ha! ha! ha! My noble nature for the preservation of our religion!-what cannot Lallchaud do!"

We have drawn attention to these Hindoo productions for reasons even more interesting than literary merit; as being signs of the Indian times, and indications of a moral change. Krishna Mohana Banerjea we shall never see; but, as he is a reader of the Athenæum, we must remind him, that scepticism is only a stage of intellectual progression; having got so far, he must get farther. Belief, not scepticism, is the end of inquiry.

English Songs, and other small Poems. By Barry Cornwall.

[Second Notice.]

THE poet has introduced his lyrics by a preface concerning the subtle art of song-writing, in which he has rather indicated than expressed his notions, for, in truth, he allowed himself too little room for a satisfactory discussion of the subject. We regret this the more because he seems possessed with the is said in the following passage we concur. true spirit of the matter; in almost all that

"In our country, (and I believe in most others) the ballad preceded the song. The achievements of the warrior were reflected in the magnifying verse of the minstrel. There scarcely ever was an age so dark, or a people so barbarous, as not to have possessed bards who sang the praises of their heroes. These two seem, in fact, to have been almost necessary to each other; and to have gone, hand in hand, together, illustrating the soul and sinews of the times. The soldier would have lacked one strong incentive, had a minstrel been found wanting to shout forth his deeds; and, without a hero, the minstrel himself would have had little or no subject for his song. For all the subtleties of thought, which writers in more advanced ages pour out so profusely, are beyond the range of an uneducated poet. He knows, sheep and their pastures,-the struggles and and sings only, what he sees and hears. The bloody feuds of his province, form the staple of his verse. His heroes are renowned, like the racer, for blood, and bone, and sinew. All else is beyond his limit,-beyond his power. It is the educated poet only who subdues abstract ideas to the purposes of his verse, and lets loose his imagination into daring and subtle works I am acquainted, who falsifies this posispeculations. There is no one, with whose tion; saving perhaps Shakspeare,—who is an exception to all things!"

There are other passages worth quoting and reading in the prose, but we must move on to the verse. Poets have been too much in the practice of writing up the charms of

| ladies, for other men to admire and woo the song of Love the poet,' may be somewhat selfish, but we are sure it is of a winning nature; that lady would deserve a stern husband who could shut her heart and remain insensible to its attractions:

Love the Poet, pretty one.
Love the poet, pretty one!
He unfoldeth knowledge fair,—
Lessons of the earth and sun,
And of azure air.

He can teach thee how to reap
Music from the golden lyre:
He can shew thee how to steep
All thy thoughts in fire.
Heed not, though at times he seem
Dark and still, and cold as clay:
He is shadowed by his Dream!
But t'will pass away.
Then-bright fancies will he weave,
Caught from air and heaven above:
Some will teach thee how to grieve;
Others, how-to love!

How from sweet to sweet to rove-
How ali evil things to shun:
Should I not then whisper-Love-
Love the poet, pretty one'?

The heart of the bard soon expands; is no selfishness in

The Wooing Song,

O pleasant is the fisher's life,
By the waters streaming;
And pleasant is the poet's life,]
Ever, ever dreaming:

And pleasant is the hunter's life,
O'er the meadows riding:
And pleasant is the sailor's life,
On the seas abiding!

But, oh! the merry life is wooing, is wooing;
Never overtaking, and always pursuing!

The hunter, when the chace is done,
Laugheth loud and drinketh;
The poet, at the set of sun,

Sigheth deep and thinketh:
The sailor, tho' from sea withdrawn,
Dreams he's half seas over;
The fisher dreameth of the dawn,
But, what dreams the lover?

there

He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing; Never overtaking, and always pursuing!

Some think that life is very long,

And murmur at the measure;
Some think it is a syren song-

A short, false, fleeting pleasure:
Some sigh it out in gloomy shades,
Thinking nought, nor doing;

But we'll ne'er think it gloomy, Maids!
Whilst there's time for wooing.
For, sure, the merry life is wooing, is wooing;
Never overtaking, and always pursuing!

The following is in a finer spirit; it is the song of one who looks on the lady of his heart as she lies slumbering-perhaps dreaining of himself:

A Repose.