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virtue. It is a sort of natural canonization.
It makes the meanest of us sacred-it installs
the poet in his immortality, and lifts him to
the skies. Death is the great assayer of the
sterling ore of talent. At his touch the drossy
particles fall off, the irritable, the personal,
the gross, and mingle with the dust-the finer
and more ethereal part mounts with the winged
spirit to watch over our latest memory and
protect our bones from insult. We consign the
least worthy qualities to oblivion, and cherish
the nobler and imperishable nature with dou-
ble pride and fondness. Nothing could shew
the real superiority of genius in a more strik-
ing point of view than the idle contests and
the public indifference about the place of Lord
Byron's interment, whether in Westminster-
Abbey or his own family-vault. A king must
have a coronation—a nobleman a funeral-pro.
cession.-The man is nothing without the
pageant. The poet's cemetery is the human
mind, in which he sows the seeds of never-
ending thought-his monument is to be found
in his works :
. “ Nothing can cover his high fame but Heaven ;

No pyramids set off his memory,
But the eternal substance of his greatness.”

Lord Byron is dead: he also died a martyr to his zeal in the cause of freedom, for the last, best hopes of man. Let that be his excuse and his epitaph !.


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