THIS noble author, whose poetry has shed a lustre upon his name, which the mere circumstance of rank could never have conferred, and whose degree as an English poet is only second to that of Shakspeare and Milton, was born at Dover, on the 22d of January, 1788. The early years of the future Childe Harold were spent at Aberdeen. In consequence of a slight malformation in one of his feet, he was allowed, during boyhood, to run among the neighbouring mountains; and while he was thus acquiring health, he was at the same time imbibing, from the romantic scenery around him, that love of the sublime and the picturesque, which afterwards characterized his poetry. From Aberdeen he was sent to the school of Harrow, and there he was more distinguished by a restless desire of action and dexterity in athletic sports, than by diligence and scholastic acquirements. He was afterwards entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, where his career was of a similar description. Here, indeed, his tame bear was of more account in his eyes than his tutor, for he was training it up, as he said, for a Fellowship. At the age of nineteen he emancipated himself from a University education, which he always heartily despised, and soon afterwards published his Hours of Idleness; a boyish work, which however exhibited some glimpses of his future excellence. The reception which awaited it, and the fearful retaliation with which he awed his critics into respect, are too well known to be particularized. After this Lord Byron went abroad, and soon ceased to be remembered. But even then, he was employed in that pilgrimage upon which he was so soon to found an imperishable name; and in 1812, the two first Cantos of his Childe Harold made their appearance. A work of such originality and power, from one whose previous labours had been held up to ridicule and contempt, burst upon the literary world like a sudden blaze of sunshine; and the task of criticism was lost in admiration. By a single effort the noble bard had placed himself by the side of the most illustrious poets of his day but even this was only a prelude to those further exertions by which he was to attain an undisputed superiority. These works, produced in rapid succession, are so well known and appreciated, that it would be equally superfluous to enumerate or to criticise them. At London, Venice, Switzerland, Ravenna, Pisa, and during the course of his erratic progress, his pen was continually active, and threw off with a rapidity almost incredible those deathless productions, which the world continued to hail with fresh wonder and delight; so that when he had only reached his thirty-fifth year he had already produced as much as might have filled a poetical life extended to old age. Having done so much for immortality as a poet, a new career was opened for Lord Byron, which was to throw, if possible, a still brighter halo over his character than all he had hitherto achieved. This was, the generous struggle for the liberation of down-trodden and afflicted Greece, into which he entered with the resolution and energy of a life-and-death devotedness. Other poets, indeed, regarded that unhappy land as their native home for was it not the source of their inspiration?-but none except Byron had realized the generous idea of taking a share in the contest, and perilling their lives upon the event. He embarked at Leghorn for Greece in August, 1823, and on arriving at the field of action he was welcomed with enthusiasm by all parties, as the promise and pledge of their national deliverance. But the spirit of dissension that raged among the Greek chieftains, and the avarice and insubordination of the insurgent soldiers, not only rendered his lordship's efforts of little avail, but harassed his spirit until his health was completely broken, and he died at Missolonghi on the 19th of April, 1824. Such was the end of this modern Tyrtæus-the lame poet who fought so bravely, and wrote so eloquently, in behalf of the oppressed. His life had been too often reckless and culpable, and his poetry had too often adorned the cause of error and sensuality. But his confirmed manhood was calming the wildness of youth, and reflection was establishing within his heart a purer faith and better principles; and although he did not live to illustrate them, it was only because he sacrificed life itself in the cause of humanity. And what repentance could be more sincere; what reparation more complete? "My love stern Seyd's! Oh-No-No-not my loveYet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove To meet his passion-but it would not be. I felt I feel-love dwells with-with the free. I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, To share his splendour, and seem very blest! Oft must my soul the question undergo, Of-Dost thou love?' and burn to answer 'No!' And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; Its pulse nor check'd-nor quicken'd-calmly cold: No warmth these lips return by his imprest, Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. From The Corsair. THE CORSAIR'S ABHORRENCE OF A MURDERESS, With hasty step a figure outward past, Then paused-and turn'd—and paused-'tis she at last! No poniard in that hand-nor sign of ill "Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!" Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. She stopp'd-threw back her dark far-floating hair, He had seen battle-he had brooded lone From The Corsair. DEATH OF LARA. Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush, He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, To share between themselves some separate fate, Their words, though faint, were many-from the tone Their import those who heard could judge alone; From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, And smiled-Heaven pardon! if 'twere with disdain: To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away |