trasted with the noise and frailty of human life is one of the most affecting thoughts which can enter the heart of man. We have just seen an example in a sonnet of Kirk White's; ("Yon brook will glide," &c.) The sacred Scriptures frequently introduce the same idea, "the place that knew him shall know him no more;" and in short almost every writer who has been successful in affecting the human heart, will be found to have adverted to this natural and pathetic contrast between the present and the past. In the midst, however, of his pensive reflections, Lord Byron skips from the grave Spenserian measure into a nimble four-feet iambic, to the tune of Lord Byron having, in his " Fare Thee Well," chosen to appear before the public in the character of a husband, and having opened the present poem in the character of a father, cannot, surely, intend to exhibit himself in the incongruous character of a lover, and that, too, after just telling us that, disappointed with lawless pleasures, he had sought his happiness on "holier ground," and filled" life's enchanted cup" from a "purer fount." England, we trust, is still so old-fashioned in her taste and morals, that if a young nobleman should choose to address his amorous ditties to any person except her who ought to be the centre of all his hopes and wishes, he would be obliged, by the voice of public "But one thing want these banks of opinion, to select some less conspi Rhine Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!" P. 31. Whose " gentle hand" is meant we are not informed. His lordship tells us, indeed, that "He had learned to love The helpless looks of blooming infancy Even in its earliest nurture;" p. 30. so that at first we wished to imagine that his "fair child Ada" was alone intended; and we would still entertain a hope that even the following mysterious stanza may be construed in a manuer not inconsistent with propriety and purity. "And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger tics Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, That love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent p. 30. greetings pour !" We are confirmed in the apprehension that this passage must be intended to refer to a sister: for cuous vehicle for their conveyance. Assuming our conjecture to be correct, we have pleasure in giving to our readers the two following stanzas. "The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see How earth may pierce to heaven, yet p. 36. At length he arrives on the borders of Lake Leman, where his misanthropical genius, taking advantage of an unguarded moment, again seizes him, and compels him to utter a long and unmerciful philippic against all social converse with his species. While the fit is upon him, it is quite amusing to see how adroitly he levels towns, cities, and villages to the dust; inferring from the alarming dangers and disasters of human intercourse, that it is "better to be alone," and to "love earth only for its earthly sake." This peevish remark, we need not say, is as anti-poetical as it is misanthropical". Even that brother enthusiast to inanimate nature, Saint Pierre, could say, "Mais quelques charmes que puissent répandre les animaux et plantes sur les sites qui leur sont assignés par la nature, je ne trouve point qu'un paysage ait toute sa beauté, si je n'y vois au moins une L'habitation de petite cabane. leave vain man below." les l'homme donne à chaque espèce de végétal un nouveau degré d'interêt, ou de majesté. Il ne faut souvent qu'un arbre pour charactériser, dans un pays, les besoins d'un peuple et les soigns de la Providence. J'aime a voir la famille d'un Arabe sous le dattier du désert, et le bateau • We venture, with great deference, again to use this epithet, notwithstanding the remark in the 69th stanza, that "To fly from need not be to hate man kind." CHRIST. OBSERV. No. 184. d'un insulaire des Maldives, chargé de cocos, sous les cocotiers de leurs grèves sablonneuses. La hutte d'un pauvre Nègre sans industrie, me plaît sous un calebassier qui porte toutes les pièces de son mènage,” &c. Surely this is better than "loving earth only for its earthly sake." Thus tired of the world and human intercourse, our author proceeds to aspire after the time when the mind shall be "free from what it hates" in its present "degraded form;" and when "reft of its carnal life," except "what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm," the poet shall begin to "feel all he sees," and become acquainted with the "spirit of each spot" with which, even upon earth, he shares the immortal destiny! Now all this may be very excellent, but it is far too absurdly sublime for us to understand; especially the notable speculation about the fly and the worm, which, if it mean any thing, can mean little less than that the human soul is grossly material, or that animal life transmigrates from men to brutes. first two lines of the succeeding Perhaps the stanza may help to explain the difficulty: "Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them ?" We should no more think of answering a man who asks such questions than a child who cries for the moon; and shall, therefore, simply remark, that if this unintelligible rhapsody is meant for poetical sublimity, we had much rather remain among that vulgar herd of men whom Lord Byron characterises in the same stanza, as "Gazing upon the ground with thoughts which dare not glow," Byron himself remarks, "But this is not my theme:"- -nor was it; but his lordship, having conceived so bright an idea, could not avoid going a little out of his way to oblige his admiring readers. From absurdity and Lake Leman the transition is easy and natural to the "self-torturing sophist" Rousseau, whose character the poet begins to sketch with some ability, though with rather more partiality, if not fellow-feeling, than we think quite warrantable. We pass over the more sentimental parts of the description to extract the following stanzas : "His life was one long war with self sought foes, Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind Did he not this for France, which lay before Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years, Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears?" p. 45. That Rousseau was phrenzied, and to that" worst pitch" which Lord Byron here describes, we have no doubt; but if the remark is introduced with a view to lessen bis moral responsibility we cannot admit the plea. Rousseau possessed, it is true, that convenient sort of lunacy which might satisfy a coroner's jury, but not that which would be admitted as an extenuation in a court of law: he was, perhaps, sufficiently phrenzied to meet Lord Byron's ideas of poetical justice, but, we fear, not to such a pitch as to render him excusable at that Higher Bar to which he has been long since summoned. We, indeed, agree with our author in his remark upon Voltaire and Gibbon, towards the conclusion of the poem, that "It is not our's to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all ;" and we equally believe that, when the soul and body shall rise again, "Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer but we can by no means allow "They made themselves a fearful mo- The wreck of old opinions-things Breathed from the birth of time; the And what behind it lay, all earth But good with ill they also overthrew, build Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, As heretofore, because, ambition was self-will'd." p. 46. This, it must be admitted, is bad enough! But Lord B. congratulates himself, amidst all, that "mankind have felt their strength and made it felt ;" though be candidly adds, that "they might have used it better," and for their not doing so proceeds very calmly to account. Truly, mankind have felt their strength; a strength which overturned, in a moment, the fairest country of Europe, and shook the whole world with its recoil and we fear it will not be till they are again willing to leave the immediate legislation of empires to an intellectual and moral, rather than a numerical and physical, majority, that the repose of nations will be finally secured. But let us follow our author to a more peaceful scene; a scene in which we had much rather meet his lordship than in the thorny With the wide world I dwelt in, is a "He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; Starts into voice a moment, then is still. hill, But that is fancy, for the star-light All silently their tears of love instil, infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues." pp. 47, 48. Attracted as we are by these beautiful lines, we must consent to 66 pass over the remaining reflections, lest our critique, like his lordship's verses, should seem pro longing without end." We finally lose sight of the Childe Harold just as he enters the borders of Italy; and as the poet informs us, that" thus far he has proceeded in his theme," we conclude that he reserves that interesting country for a separate canto. Lord Byron never treads more nobly than on classic ground; so that, if he can fairly divest himself of ruffians, and egotism, and misanthrophy, and scepticism, and will consent to put in their place a little good sense, and good temper, and, above all, (would that the wish were realized) a little Christian feeling, we should hope, even yet, that he might proThat I with stern delights should e'er duce a pilgrimage to Italy," Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing loved Torn Ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, have been so moved. "It is the hush of night, and all be Or chirps the grasshopper one good night carol more: which, when sufficiently matured, and kept back the statutáble Horatian term of years, should eclipse all his former productions, and stamp him with a character far higher, and more desirable, than that of an interesting poet. As we gave the commencement, we shall give the conclusion of the Canto, with the exception of one verse, which ought never to have been written, since it is impossible to conceive that by any British mother" dull hate as duty should be taught" to an only child, in re ference to one whom, whatever may be his faults or follies, that child is enjoined to "honour and obey." We should not thus venture on personal remarks, had not the poem itself extorted them from us. "And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, and that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,-but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone-remembered or forgot. "I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee,— I see thee not, I hear theê not,— but none Can be so wrapt in thee. Thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold, A token and a tone, even from thy fa ther's mould. Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor I cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such ; Words which are things,-hopes which will not deceive, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, And virtues which are merciful, nor As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst weave have been to me!" pp. 61-64. In the first of these stanzas we learn that fame is no longer Lord Byron's thirst; but how far this assertion is to be literally understood, his rapid succession of poems, each of which, we suppose, is a candidate for public favour will best evince. The remark in the next verse, that he has not loved the world nor the world him, |