a great grey horse, by Rubens; and one of Vandyke's noble equestrian portraits of Charles the First. I confess that I have compressed my account of the pictures in this gallery within narrower limits than I might have done, in order that I might have space left for some notice of the splendid frame-work in which they are inclosed, and the unrivalled living picture which lies immediately within their view. But as I find that both these have been just done to my hands, and in a manner better than I could hope to do them, without repeating the same images and thoughts, I shall venture to transcribe the two passages to which I allude; especially as they form part of a work which has been so recently published, that it is not likely to be yet in the hands of many readers.* The following refers to the particular view that I spoke of, as seen from the windows of one of the apartments through which we passed: "From the terrace, which I have said runs round two sides of the Castle, there is a noble view of this luxuriant domain, over which it seems to preside like a queen; looking out upon all with an air of quiet dignity, and being looked up to by all as if for countenance and protection. You know how fond I am of forming imaginary unions of this kind; and you will easily believe that I could not help, or rather that I did not try to help, pursuing my inclination on this occasion. As I paced the terrace, or seated myself listlessly on its parapet, and looked forth on the rich pageant of natural beauty that lay spread out beneath me, I amused myself by fancying a union of the above kind, by endowing all before and about me with an imaginary life and consciousness, and giving to each and all a separate and appropriate set of feelings, habits, and duties. The Castle itself I had before converted into a matronly beauty; I now raised her to the rank of a maiden queen (the Elizabeth) of a smiling and happy realm. The thousand various trees and shrubs that clothed the eminence, formed the court dress of this stately beauty, terminating at the terrace, which seemed to clasp her waist as a zone; the flower-painted meadows that stretched all around, were the rich tapestry of her presence-chamber, over which the sky hung like an azure dome; the majestic elms that grew on every side, swept as they were by the passing wind, seemed bowing their heads in token of a courtly homage; the beautiful river, that came winding round at the foot of the eminence, seemed pressing near to pay her willing tribute, and kiss the hem of her royal garment, and then to glide away, prouder and happier than before. The rest of the scenery I likened to the more distant spectators, who were silently watching their turn to approach her, or modestly contented to wait within the ken of her eye and the light of her countenance. The most conspicuous object among these is the exquisite gothic hall of Eton College, which rises at a little distance like a religious temple. For this I could find no appropriate similitude. The best I could do was to liken it to a beautiful devotee, vowed and dedicated to unearthly thoughts, and with looks commercing with the skies,' yet choosing to place herself in the presence of majesty, in order occasionally to remind it that there is a kingdom not of this world." The other passage which I shall quote from the same work, relates to the associations * Letters on England, by the Count de Soligny. 2 vols. to us. connected with Windsor Castle: "I cannot take a final leave of this interesting spot, without letting my thoughts recur for a moment to the scenes which have glorified and graced it in times past; and which scenes and times no concurrence of circumstances can ever bring back Here the genius of chivalry reigned in the fullest pomp of its power, and revelled in its gayest and most gallant lustre; and here the shadow of it still presides, but over a shadowy realm, a vacant altar, and a neglected shrine. Here, in consequence of a happy accident in the loss and finding of a lady's garter, at one of the royal fes-. tivals that were so frequently given in this place-here was offered that fine homage to the influence of female charms, the institution of the Garter order of Knighthood. Here, in these courtly halls, or echoing courts, or in the fancy-peopled solitudes belonging to them,— either beneath the pillared shade' of the stately elms, or in the open champaign adjoining, as the mood of his spirit might direct-here the gallant and chivalrous, yet tender and melancholy Surrey used to wander listlessly about, meditating love-lays that might win to his arms the lovely Lady Geraldine, who was the first object of his youthful passion. Here that other princely lover, as romantic and poetical as Surrey, but infinitely less fortunate-the double captive at once to love and policy-his body even a closer prisoner than his mind-here the amiable monarch of Scotland passed the whole of his youthful years, from their first early spring, at thirteen, to their final close at thirty. Here he used to lie in his bed and read Boetius's Consolations of Philosophy, till he could half forget that he was either a monarch or a captive; and here, when the philosophy of reason failed to comfort him, he flew to the still better philosophy of poetry and love, and found what he sought. Gazing from the window of his prison on the gardens beneath, he saw the beautiful Lady Jane Beaufort, wandering among the flowers, the loveliest of them all; and in his situation, to see such a lady was to love her; and with his elegant and romantio mind, to love such a lady, was to feel that he had need be something more than a king, to deserve and win her: so he became a poet; and he did win her and his liberty together, and made her his queen; and a devoted and happy pair they remained, till the basest of conspiracies, to which he fell a victim some time after, tore them asunder; when this romantic love had an end worthy of its beginning, by the lady throwing herself as a protecting shield before the person of her lord, and receiving on her tender body the murderous blows that were directed at his but receiving them in vain! Here, on these lordly terraces, one of which was erected by herself, the truly royal Elizabeth, that queen of queens, used to walk for an hour daily, meditating on the glory and happiness of her realm, and doubtless mingling thoughts of love and pleasure with those of duty and good government. "Finally, and to pass over all intermediate recollections, here, on this same terrace, the most worthy and respectable, but least chivalrous of monarchs, George the Third, used to walk every Sunday, in company with his subjects, frequently entering into familiar conversation with the meanest of them; and here, confined to one set of apartments for a series of weary years, he remained an unconscious prisoner, blind, helpless, and a maniac, obliged to be treated as a wayward child by his own offspring, and commanded by his own servants! "I will confess to you, that, in quitting Windsor Castle, and recollecting that I should probably never look forth from its lordly terrace, or pace its majestic courts again, a feeling of regret came over me, that I never before experienced in quitting a spot of this kind; and as royal palaces are, in general, far from being rich in associations among which my mind delights to dwell, I must attribute this feeling to the peculiar character of the present one, and to its necessarily throwing back the imagination to the most poetical times which modern Europe has ever known." GREEK SONG. THE VOICE OF SCIO. A VOICE from Scio's Isle, A voice of song, a voice of old, The souls of nations woke ! To sky, and sea, and shore, Still by our sun-bright deep, And kings their turf have crown'd! A voice from Scio's Isle, A voice as deep hath risen again! Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, Know ye not whence it comes? From desolated homes ! 'Tis with us through the night! 'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky -Hear it, thou Heaven! when swords flash nigh, 1 HEAVEN AND EARTH; A MYSTERY*. We had begun to suspect that Lord Byron, from his hurry in sending forth his latter productions, regarded more their quantity than their quality, and felt an inclination to astonish us in future by the fertility rather than the power of his pen. However such a plan might succeed with a novelist in keeping attention alive, it is the grave of the poet's glory. He has to regard something beyond temporary fame; he is to write for all ages, and in proportion as success is more difficult, his reward is of greater magnitude. Lord Byron, it is true, has already mounted "the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;" but it is no less necessary to be careful in preserving eminence than it is to be laborious in attaining it. We thought his "Werner" by no means worthy his renown, and there is something so attaching, so delightful in genius, that we observed what we thought a falling off with a feeling of deep regret, but we did not form such an opinion without ample reasons to bear us out. We speak here only in a literary sense, having no reference to any other point of view in which some of the latter productions of the noble poet have been considered by friends or enemies. This new poem, however, or rather first part of a poem, for so it is stated to be, carries with it the peculiar impress of the writer's genius. It displays great vigour and even a severity of style throughout, which is another proof, if proof were needed, that elevation in writing is to be obtained only by a rigid regard to simplicity. There are pretenders to criticism numerous enough in the present day, who try to catch the public ear, mere empirics in the art, that cannot see this. They know of only one style in poetry, and would judge Byron, Moore, Campbell, Scott, Rogers, and others of our poets by the same laws, rob each of his peculiar characteristics, and blend them all in the same jumbled uniformity, allowing them merely a verbal difference from each other. The truth is, that such distinctions in manner delight, while they astonish us at the variety of human genius. Poets ought to be criticised singly. It is a manifest error to judge them one by another. This particularly applies to Lord Byron, who often writes with what seems a scorn of the critic's shackle, and, it must be confessed, now and then with instances of carelessness difficult to justify. His versification in the present poem is, for example, not agreeable to received custom, but it was agreeable to his feeling at the time he wrote, and there was no well-founded objection to its adoption. Long and short lines intermingled have been used by Milton, after the custom of the Italians; and when the words that rhime are made to recur sufficiently near each other, they are by no means unpleasing. It suffices, however, for my argument, that the poet only is the best judge of the measure in which he can write freely, and that whether the versification resemble that of Milton or Pope, if it be duly preserved, the critic has no right to cavil. I would not here be thought to justify the metrical lunacy of Dr. Southey, and say there was no overstepping the bounds of propriety in such a matter. The unfelicitous extravagance of the laureat in this respect, no doubt, resulted from his self-sufficiency, imagining that what no other human being could achieve would be for him less than a literary relaxation. * Lord Byron, Hunt, Old Bond-street, 1823. Lord Byron has too much good sense to reason like his complacent antagonist in this respect. "Heaven and Earth" will raise none of those objections which were made to "Cain." It may be perused without shocking the feelings of the sensitive, or furnishing an object for the discriminating morality of the Lord Chancellor, so fatal to Mr. Murray's interest, and auspicious for the pedlars in the "trade," to whom his lordship's sage decision seemed almost a declaration of patronage. Mr. Moore's "Loves of the Angels," though built on a similar foundation, bears no resemblance to Lord Byron's poem. Indeed the style and mode of treating the subject differ as much as the genius of the two writers. The muse of Moore and her agents are all inhabitants of a Paradise. They dwell in the gorgeous gardens of Cashmere; they repose on beds of roses; sleep amid perfumes and aromatic incense; Cupids flutter around them; and the whole machinery of love, sighs and thrilling kisses, is in their hearts and on their lips, under blue sunny skies. The females of Moore are of the family of Sappho, loving for the sake of love alone. Lord Byron's muse dwells among wild scenery: all is dark, massy, and untrodden, like in the pictures of Salvator Rosa. His females have not the sensuality that seems to characterize those of Moore. They are more confiding, gentle, and timid; more like the feminine creations of Scott. They love the object of their affection rather than the passion itself; they are more of the romantic than the Grecian school. If disappointed in love, they would be more likely to pine away into dissolution, wasted and heart-broken, than to fling themselves, in a rush of despairing frenzy, from a Leucadian promontory. The male characters of Byron are the reverse,-all turbulence and fire; but his females are, on the whole, more natural and more agreeable to our feelings, than the pretty voluptuaries of Moore. Byron is ever roaming in a region of gloomy grandeur, among Alpine precipices and cloud-capped mountains; Moore is contented with the beautiful, and never aims at astonishing. Byron is mysterious, his ideas seek to penetrate into the darkness of unknown regions, and to depict the innermost workings of the mind-the thoughts that would presumptuously scrutinize the Holy of holies. Moore paints the workings of passion in heavenly colours, but he rarely travels out of the path of humanity. He colours with rainbow hues, and embellishes with every touch of art, but he is ever among men. It is obvious, therefore, that where the genius of the two poets is so different, there can be little resemblance in their mode of treating almost similar subjects; and such is really the case in what appeared to be rival works. Neither Aholibamah nor Anah, in the present poem, could ever be mistaken for Mr. Moore's creations of woman, beautiful as they always are; and the total absence of any thing meretricious in "Heaven and Earth," its severe simplicity, removes it yet farther from a resemblance to the "Loves of the Angels." It seems but fair and proper, when perusing with a critical eye any work of art, to consider most carefully, in the first place, the author's object, and to enter into his own views, and examine whether he has succeeded in realizing them, before considering it in our own. He may else intend something very different from what the critic conceives, and that may be mistaken for accident which was the result of |