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Arnold and Cæsar bear her out for the purpose of procuring assistance, which, as she still breathes, may restore her; and thus the second part ends.

The follow

Of the third part no more was written than a chorus of peasants singing before the gates of a castle in the Appennines. ing is an extract from this song:

The wars are over,

The spring is come;
The bride and her lover

Have sought their home:

They are happy, we rejoice;

Let their hearts have an echo in every voice!

The spring is come; the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter's flower,

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower,
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.
And when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse
Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.
Pluck the others, but still remember
Their Herald out of dim December-

The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of day-light's lengthened hours;
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget

The virgin, virgin Violet.

Enter Cæsar.

Cæsar (singing).

The wars are all over,

Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle,

The casque's on the wall.
There's rest for the Rover;

But his armour is rusty,
And the veteran grows crusty,
As he yawns in the hall.

He drinks-but what's drinking?

A mere pause from thinking!

No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.

It is impossible now to do more than guess at what Lord Byron meant in the conclusion of this poen-whether he proposed to follow the course of the romance, or to invent new adventures for his hero: we are inclined to adopt the latter opinion.

This was Lord Byron's last poem, with the exception of an ode (which we shall hereafter have to notice); and here we shall add the opinions which were entertained of his personal and poetical merit by two of the greatest men who have graced the age in which we live— Goëthe and Sir Walter Scott. The first is a translation of a letter, addressed by the German poet to Mr. Medwin:

'Weimar, 16th of July, 1824.

It has been thought desirable to bave some details relative to the communication that existed between Lord Noel Byron, alas! now no more! and Goëthe: a few words will comprise the whole subject.

'The German poet, who, up to his advanced age, has habituated himself to weigh with care and impartiality the merit of illustrious persons of his own time, as well as his immediate contemporaries, from a consideration that this knowledge would prove the surest means of advancing his own, might well fix his attention on Lord Byron; and, having watched the dawn of his great and early talents, could not fail to follow their progress through his important and uninterrupted

career.

'It was easy to observe that the public appreciation of his merit as a poet increased progressively with the increasing perfection of his works, one of which rapidly succeeded another. The interest which they excited had been productive of a more unmingled delight to his friends, if self-dissatisfaction and the restlessness of his passions had not in some measure counteracted the powers of an imagination allcomprehensive and sublime, and thrown a blight over an existence which the nobleness of his nature gifted him with a more than common capacity for enjoying.

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His German admirer, however, not permitting himself to come to a hasty and erroneous conclusion, continued to trace, with undiminished attention, a life and poetical activity equally rare and irreconcileable, and which interested him the more forcibly, inasmuch as he could discover no parallel in past ages with which to compare them, and found

himself utterly destitute of the elements necessary to calculate re specting an orb so eccentric in its course.

In the mean while the German and his occupations did not remain altogether unknown or unattended to by the English writer, who not only furnished unequivocal proofs of an acquaintance with his works but conveyed to him, through the medium of travellers, more than one friendly salutation.

Thus I was agreeably surprised by indirectly receiving the original sheet of a dedication of the tragedy of "Sardanapalus," conceived in terms the most honourable to me, and accompanied by a request that it might be printed at the head of the work.

The German poet, in his old age, well knowing himself and his labours, could not but reflect with gratitude and diffidence on the expressions contained in this dedication, nor interpret them but as the generous tribute of a superior genius, no less original in the choice than inexhaustible in the materials of his subjects; and he felt no disappointment when, after many delays, "Sardanapalus" appeared without the preface: he, in reality, already thought himself fortunate in possessing a fac-simile in lithograph,* and attached to it no ordinary value.

It appeared, however, that the noble lord had not renounced his project of showing his contemporary and companion in letters a striking testimony of his friendly intentions, of which the tragedy of "Werner" contains an extremely precious evidence.

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It might naturally be expected that the aged German poet, after receiving from so celebrated a person such an unhoped-for kindness (proof of a disposition so thoroughly amiable, and the more to be prized from its rarity in the world), should also prepare, on his part, to express most clearly and forcibly a sense of the gratitude and esteem with which he was affected.

'But this undertaking was so great, and every day seemed to make it so much more difficult,-for what could be said of an earthly being whose merit could not be exhausted by thought, or comprehended by words?

But when, in the spring of 1823, a young man of amiable and engaging manners, a Mr. S―, brought, direct from Genoa to Weimar, a few words under the hand of this estimable friend, by way of recommendation, and when shortly after there was spread a report that the noble lord was about to consecrate his great powers and varied talents • Goethe does not mention of what nature the lithograph was.”

terested principles. Lord Byron was totally free from the curse and degradation of literature—its jealousies, we mean, and its envy. But his wonderful genius was of a nature which disdained restraint, even when restraint was most wholesome. When at school, the tasks in which he excelled were those only which he undertook voluntarily; and his situation as a young man of rank, with strong passions, and in the uncontrolled enjoyment of a considerable fortune, added to that impatience of strictures or coercion which was natural to him. As an author, he refused to plead at the bar of criticism; as a man, he would not submit to be morally amenable to the tribunal of public opinion. Remonstrances from a friend, of whose intentions and kindness he was secure, had often great weight with him; but there were few who could venture on a task so difficult. Reproof he endured with impatience, and reproach hardened him in his error-so that he often resembled the gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the steel that wounds him. In the most painful crisis of his private life he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in such a degree as almost to resemble the noble victim of the bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, than by the lance of his nobler, and, so to speak, his more legitimate antagonist. In a word, much of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done with the motive of Dryden's despot, "to show his arbitrary power." It is needless to say that his was a false and prejudiced view of such a contest; and, if the noble bard gained a sort of triumph by compelling the world to read poetry, though mixed with baser matter, because it was his, he gave, in return, an unworthy triumph to the unworthy, besides deep sorrow to those whose applause, in his cooler moments, he most valued.

'It was the same with his politics, which on several occasions assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to the constitution of his country; while, in fact, Lord Byron was in his own heart sufficiently sensible, not only of his privileges as a Briton, but of the distinction attending his high birth and rank, and was peculiarly sensitive of those shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, notwithstanding his having employed epigrams, and all the petty war of wit, when such would have been much better abstained from, he would have been found, had a collision taken place between the aristocratic parties in the state, exerting all his energies in defence of that to which he naturally belonged. His own feelings

on these subjects be has explained in the very last canto of Don Juan ;' and they are in entire harmony with the opinions which we have seen expressed in his correspondence, at a moment when matters appeared to approach a serious struggle in his native country :

none.

"He was as independent-ay, much more,

Than those who were not paid for independence;
As common soldiers, or a common-Shore,
Have in their several acts or parts ascendance
O'er the irregulars in lust or gore,

Who do not give professional attendance.
Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager

To prove their pride as footmen to a beggar."

-

We are not, however, Byron's apologists, for now, alas! he needs His excellencies will now be universally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not be remembered in his epitaph. It will be recollected what a part he has sustained in British literature since the first appearance of Childe Harold," a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under the shade of his laurels; no living upon the resource of past reputation; none of that codling and petty precaution which little authors call "taking care of their fame." Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and, although his own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle, since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded the public estimates of his genius, yet he advanced to the honorable contest again and again and again, and came always off with distinction, almost always with complete triumph. As various in composition as Shakspeare himself (this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his "Don Juan"), he has embraced every topic of human life, and sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slightest to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones. There is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing Muse, although his most powerful efforts have certainly been dedicated to Melpomene. His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most prodigal use did not exhaust his powers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigour. Neither "Childe Harold," nor any of the most beautiful of Byron's earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to be found scattered through the cantos of "Don Juan," amidst verses which

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