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the frailties, but too frankly told —
His virtues as his failings--we shall find
And enmilies, like sun-touched syow, resigued-
And, keeping all that softens and adorns
Turns but its darkness on a world he scornis.' The friendship which subsisted belween Mr. Moore and Lord Byron was equally honorable to each. No two things could well be inore dissimilar than the courses which each of them had selected to run in their poetical careers, and yet, as far as they were both caudidates (and suceessful ones) for public approbation, they may be fairly said to have been rivals. They even, as we bave before noticed, selecled the same subject for the exercise of their talents; but not only was there no similarity in the manner of the execution, but the testimony which, in the publication of that poem, Mr. Moore bore to the genius of his brother-bard was highly cominendable. It happens but too frequently in the annals of literature that the very circuinstances which ought to attach men of letters lo each other-for example, a similarity of pursuits, and feelings kindled from the saine etherial fire-have the effect of raising barriers between them, and they never speak of each other but to carp at that same to which they consider themselves to be solely entitled, and which to share with a rival is worse than not to possess at all. They can in common 'bear no rival near their thrones.' Mr. Moore is an honorable exception to this almost universal rule, and by his conduct to Lord Byron during his life, still more by the alınost fastidious respect which he has paid to his memory, has shown that he deserved the friendship of such a man, and that the exaltation of his mind is not whoily confined to his literary efforts.
The death of Lord Byron has, however, reconciled all opinions. Envy is dead, and that spirit of criticism which induced some persons to cavil at what they had neither hearts to feel nor heads to understand is at rest for ever. The bitterness of the grief which Lord Byron's decease occasioned has also lost much of its force, and it is now regarded only as a loss deep and irreparable, but one which must be endured. In the mean time his fame has soared to the highest point, and, in all the range of English poetry, there are few who claim a more brilliant place. In the memory of all who knew him he will live while they exist; and, when all who breathed the same air with him shall have gone to join him in the world which he now inhabits, his works will hold the same station as they now occupy in the ininds of all men while the literature of England shall continue. This shall be really to live, and in this fame is the real triumph over the grave.
He is not dead, he doth not sleep-
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief