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Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more-those breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing. If he was
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd

With forms which live and suffer-let that pass--
His shadow fades away into destruction's mass.'

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In the corresponding passage of the "Tales of the Genii," Ridley, the amiable author or complier of the collection, expresses himself to the following purport,-for we have not the book at hand to do justice to his precise words,-"Reader, the Genii are no more, and Horam, but the phantom of my mind, fiction himself and fiction all that he seemed to write, speaks not again. But lament not their loss, since if desirous to see virtue guarded by miracles, Religion can display before you scenes tremendous, wonderful, and great, more worthy of your sight than aught that human fancy can conceivethe moral veil rent in twain and the Sun of Righteousness arising from the thick clouds of heathen darkness." In the sincere spirit of admiration for Lord Byron's talents, and regard for his character, which has dictated the rest of our criticism, we here close our analysis of Childe Harold.

Our task respecting Lord Byron's poetry is finished, when we have mentioned the subject, quoted passages of superior merit, or which their position renders most capable of being detached from the body of the poem. For the character of his style and versification once distinctly traced (and we have had repeated occasion to consider it), cannot again be dwelt on without repetition. The harmony of verse, and the power of numbers, nay, the selection and arrangement of expressions, are all so subordinate to the thought and sentiment, as to become comparatively light in the scale. His poetry is like the oratory which hurries the hearers along without permitting them to pause on its solecisms or singularities. Its general structure is bold, severe, and as it were Doric, admitting few ornaments but those immediately suggested by the glowing imagination of the author, rising and sinking with the tones of his enthusiasm, roughening into argument, or softening into the melody of feeling and sentiment, as if the language fit for either were alike at the command of the poet, and the numbers not only came uncalled, but arranged themselves with little care on his part into the varied modulation which the subject requires. Many

of the stanzas, considered separately from the rest, might be objected to as involved, harsh, and overflowing into each other beyond the usual license of the Spenserian stanza. But considering the various matter of which the poet had to treat-considering the monotony of a long-continued smoothness of sound, and accurate division of the sense according to the stanzas-considering also that the effect of the general harmony is, as in music, improved by the judicious introduction of discords wherewith it is contrasted, we cannot join with those who state this occasiona lharshness asan objection to Lord Byron's poetry. If the line sometimes "labours and the words move slow," it is in passages where the sense is correspondent to these laborious movements. A highly finished strain of versification resembles a dressed pleasure ground, elegant-even beautiful-but tame and insipid compared to the majesty and interest of a woodland chase, where scenes of natural loveliness are rendered sweeter and more interesting by the contrast of irregularity and wildness.

We have done with the poem; we have, however, yet a few words to say before we finally close our strictures.

To this canto, as to the former, notes are added, illustrative of the contents; and these, we are informed, are written by Mr. Hobhouse, the author of that facetious account of Buonaparte's reign of an hundred days, which it was our office last year to review. They are distinct and classical illustrations of the text, but contain, of course, many political sentiments of a class which have ceased to excite anger, or any feelings stronger than pity, and a sense of the weakness of humanity which, in all ages, has inclined even men of talents and cultivation to disgrace themselves, by the adoption of sentiments of which it is impossible they can have examined either the grounds or the consequences— whence the doctrines come, or whither they are tending. The mob of a corrupt metropolis, who vindicate the freedom of election by knocking out the brains of the candidate of whom they disapprove, act upon obvious and tangible principles; so do the Spenceans, Spa-fieldians, and Nottingham conspirators. That "seven halfpenny loaves should be sold for a penny,"-that "the three-hooped pot should have ten hoops," and that "the realm should be all in common," have been the watchwords of insurrection

among the vulgar, from Jack Straw's time to the present, and, if neither honest nor praiseworthy, are at least sufficiently plain and intelligible. But the frenzy which makes. individuals of birth and education hold a language as if they could be willing to risk the destruction of their native country, and all the horrors of a civil war, is not so easily accounted for. To believe that these persons would accelerate a desolation in which they themselves directly, or through their nearest and dearest connections, must widely share, merely to remove an obnoxious minister, would be to form a hasty, and perhaps a false judgment of them. The truth seems to be, that the English, even those from whom better things might be expected, are born to be the dupes of jugglers and mountebanks in all professions. It is not only in physic that the names of our nobility and gentry decorate occasionally the list of cures to which the empiric appeals as attesting the force of his remedy. Religion in the last age, and politics in the present, have had their quacks, who substituted words for sense, and theoretical dogmata for the practice of every duty.-But whether in religion or politics, or physic, one general mark distinguishes the empiric, the patient is to be cured without interruption of business or pleasure, the proselyte to be saved without refor mation of the future, or repentance of the past,—the country to be made happy by an alteration in its political system; and all the vice and misery which luxury and poor's rates, a crowded population, and decayed morality can introduce into the community, to be removed by extending farther political rights to those who daily show that they require to be taught the purpose for which those they already enjoy were intrusted to them. That any one above the rank of an interested demagogue should teach this, is wonderful,— that any should believe it except the lowest of the vulgar, is more so, but vanity makes as many dupes as folly.

If, however, these gentlemen will needs identify their own cause with that of their country's enemies, we can forgive them as losers, who have proverbial leave to pout. And when, in bitterness of spirit, they term the great, the glori ous victory of Waterloo, the " carnage of St. Jean," we can forgive that too, since, trained in the school of revolutionary France, they must necessarily abhor those

"whose art was of such power

It could control their dam's God Setebos,
And make a vassal of him."-

From the dismal denunciations which Lord Byron, acting more upon his feeling than his judgment, has made against our country, although

"Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo,"

we entertain no fears-none whatever.

At home the noble author may hear of better things than "a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus"-he may hear of an improving revenue and increasing public prosperity. And while he continues abroad he may haply call to mind, that the Pilgrim, whom eight years since, the universal domination of France compelled to wander into distant and barbarous countries, is now at liberty to travel where he pleases, certain that there is not a corner of the civilized world where his title of Englishman will not ensure him a favourable and respectful reception.

AMADIS OF GAUL.*

[Edinburgh Review, October, 1803.]

THE fame of Amadis de Gaul has reached to the present day, and has indeed become almost provincial in most languages of Europe. But this distinction has been attained rather in a mortifying manner: for the hero seems much less indebted for his present renown to his historians, Lobeira, Montalvo, and Herberay, than to Cervantes, who selected their labours, as one of the best known books of chivalry, and therefore the most prominent object for his ridicule. In this case, as in many others, the renown of the victor has carried down to posterity the memory of the vanquished; and, excepting the few students of black letter, we believe no reader is acquainted with Amadis de Gaul, otherwise than as the prototype of Don Quixote de la Mancha. But the ancient knight seems now in a fair way of being rescued from this degrading state of notoriety, and of once more resuming a claim to public notice upon his own proper merits; having, with singular good fortune, engaged in his cause two such authors as Mr. Southey and Mr. Rose. As the subject of the two articles before us, is in fact the same, we shall adopt the prose version of Mr. Southey, as forming the fullest text for the general commentaries which we have to offer; reserving till the conclusion, the particular remarks which occur to us upon Mr. Rose's poem.

The earliest copy of Amadis de Gaul, now known to exist, is the Spanish edition of Garcia Ordognez de Montalvo, which is used by Mr. Southey in his translation. Montalvo

* Amadis de Gaul: By VASCO LOBEIRA. From the Spanish version of Garciordonez de Montalvo. By ROBERT SOUTHEY. And Amadis de Gaul: A poem in Three Books. Freely translated from the French of NICOLAS DE HERBERAY, by WILLIAM STEWART ROSE. VOL. I.-18

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