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LXI. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene,

Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near

them fall.

LIV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days; 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands Making a marvel that it not decays,

When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell'd Aventicun, hath strew'd her subject lands.

But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche - the thunderbolt of snow !
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,

Gather around these summits, as to show (below. How Earth may picrce to Heaven, yet leave vain man

LXVI. And there-ob! sweet and sacred be the name !Julia — the daughter, the devoted - gave Her youth to heaven; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save.

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one

dust. S

LXIII. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain,

Themselves their monument; - the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wan

dering ghost.?

LXVII. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, [birth; The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth

In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below.

While Waterloo with Canna's carnage vies,
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ;
They were true Glory's stainless victories,
Won by the unambitious heart and hand
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band,
All unbought champions in no princely cause
Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land

Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause.

LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 5 The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew

Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their


engagement, got to the brow of the hill, whence they had their Erst view of the Rhine. They instantly halted -- not a gun was fired - not a voice heard: but they stood gazing on the river with those feelings which the events of the last fifteen years at once called up. Prince Schwartzenberg rode up to know the cause of this sudden stop ; then they gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove them into the water.)

| The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service of Fracce; who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still remain, not. withstanding the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages (all who passed that way removing a hone to their own cwuery), and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss pos. tilious, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles ; a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. Of these relics I rentuired to bring away as much as may have made a quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted them to worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them.

• Arenticum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Hel. vetia, where Avenches now stands.

9 Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endcarour to save her father, condeinned to death as a traitor br Aulus Crcina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago ; - it is thus : -"Julia alpinula : Ilic jaceo.

Infelicis patris infelix proles. Deæ Aventiæ Sacerdos. Exo. rare patris necem non potui : Male mori in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos xxn." - I know of no human comprsition so affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication.

4. This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 30, 1816), which even at this distance dazzles mine. — (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty miles.

5 In the exquisite lines which the poet, at this time, addressed to his sister, there is the following touching stanza:

"I did remind thee of our own dear lake,

By the old hall which may be mine no more.
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remenibrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
Ere that or thou can fade these eres before ;
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
Resign'd for ever, or divided far."

With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast

Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling.

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free
From what it hates in this degraded torm,
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be
Existent happier in the fly and worm, -
When elements to elements conform,
And dust is as it should be, shall I not
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ?
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these ? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare

not glow?

LXXVI. But this is not my theme ; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for a while - a passing guest, Where he became a being, — whose desire

Was to be glorious; 't was a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest.

LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousscau, s The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, tirst drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly huet

Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and


To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind :
Ali are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil
Of our infection, till too late and long
We may deplore and struggle with the coil,

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.

LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless fight To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite,

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity (be. Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall

Is it not better, then, to be alone,
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ?
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, i
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake,
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make
A fair but froward infant her own care,
Kissing its cries away as these awake;

Is it not better thus our lives to wear,
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to infict or bear?

LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me High mountains are a feeling?, but the hum Of human cities torture : I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain.

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life :
I look upon the peopled desert past,
As on a place of agony and strife,
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast,
To act and suffer, but remount at last

1 The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. – [See Don Juan, c. XIV. st. 87. for a beautiful comparison :

" There was no great disparity of years,

Though much in temper : but they never clash'd :
They moved like stars united in their spheres,

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd
Through the serene and placid glassy deep,

Which fain would luil its river child to sleep."'] ? [" Mr. Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a journey of lakes and mountains. We have been to the Grindelwald, and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wengen Alp; and seen torrents of 900 feet in fall, and glaciers of all dinensions; we have heard shepherds' pipes, and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from the valley's below us like the spray of the ocean of hell. Cha• mouni, and that which it inherits, we saw a month ago ; but, though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in wilduess to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, the Shreckhorn, and the Rose Glaciers." B. Letters, Sept. 1816.)


[“ I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the 'Héloise' before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and the Chateau de Chillon, are places of which I shall say little : because all I could say must fall short of the impressions they stamp." — B. Letters.]

" (" It is evident that the impassioned parts of Rousseau's romance had made a deep impression upon the feelings of the noble poet. The enthusiasm expressed by Lord Bytop is no small tribute to ti power possessed by Jean Jacques over the passions: and, to say truth, we needed some such evidence ; for, though almost ashamed to avow the truth, - still, like the barber of Midlas, we must speak or die, — we have never been able to feel the interest or discover the merit of this far-famed performance. That there is much eloquence in the letters we readily admit: there lay Rousseau's strength. But his lovers, the celebrated St. Preux and Julie, have, from the earliest moment we have heard the tale (which we well remember), down to the present hour, totally failed to interest us. There might be some constituticnal hardness of heart; but lihe Lance's pebble-hearted cur, Crab, we remained dryeyed while all wept around us. And still, on resuming the

His love was passion's essence — as a tree
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of ideal beauty, which became

In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems.

LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured ! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities.

But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt,

They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ?

LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd,

Silence, but not submission : in his lair
Fix'd Passion holds his breatb, until the bour
Which shall atone for years; none need despair :

It came, it cometh, and will come, -
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower,

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the power

LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banishd; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was phrensied, wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find;

But he was phrensied by disease or woe To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show.

For then he was inspired, and from him came,

As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, -- Those oracles which set the world in fame,

Nor ceased to burn till kingdom.s were no more :
Did he not this for France ? which lay before
Bow'd 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'er-

grown fears ?

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring

Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;

LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument ! The wreck of old opinions -- things which grew, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew

Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fillid, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will’d.

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 3

volume, even now, we can see little in the loves of these two tiresome pedants to interest our feelings for either of them. To state our opinion in language (sce Burke's Reflections) much better than our own, we are unfortunate enough to re. gard this far-famed history of philosophical gallantry as an * unfashioned, indelicate, sour, gloomy; ferocious medley of pedantry and lewdness; of metaphysical speculations, blended with the coarsest sensuality." - SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

I This refers to the account in his “ Confessions" of his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert, and his long walk every morning, for the sake of the single kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most passionate, yet not impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled into words, which, after all, must be felt, from their very

force, to be inadequate to the delineation : a painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean.

? ("Lord Byron's character of Rousseau is drawn with great force, great power of discrimination, and great eloquence. I know not that he says any thing which has not been said before ;- but what he says issues, apparently, from the recesses of his own mind. It is a little laboured, which, possibly, may be caused by the form of the stanza into which it was necessary to throw it; but it cannot be doubted that the poet felt a sympathy for the enthusiastic tenderness of Rousseau's genius, which he could not have recognised with such extreme ferrour, except from a consciousness of having at least occasionally experienced similar emotions." — SIR E. BHYDGES.]

3 [During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up his resideuce at the Campagne-Diodati, in the village of

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From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud !

XCIII. And this is in the night :- Most glorious night! Tliou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest and of thee !! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 't is black, and now, the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.s

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires, - 't is to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destiniez o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast,
All is concenter'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone ;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty ; - 't would disarm Thie spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.

Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take
A fit and unwallid temple, there to seek
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak,
Uprcard of human hands.

Come, and compare
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,

With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r !

The sky is changed ! and such a change ! On

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,

XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage (parted :Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de

Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters,- - war within themselves to wage.

XcY. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fing their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, - as if he did understand,

That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein


XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, - if I rest. 4 But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal ?

Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?

Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly descending vineyard ; the windows commanding, one war, a noble view of The lake and of Genera; the other, up the lake. Every even. ing, the poet embarked on the lake ; and to the feelings created by these excursions we owe these delightful stanzas. Of his mode of passing a day, the following, from his Journal, is a pleasant specimen :

“ September 18. Called. Got up at five. Stopped at Vevay' two hours. View from the churchyard superb ; within it Ludlow (the regicide's) monument - black marble - long inscription ; Latin, but simple. Near him Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is buried, with a queer and rather canting inscription. Ludlow's house shown. Walked down to the lake side ; servants, carriages, saddle-horses, -all set off, and left us plantés , by some istake. Hobhouse ran on before, and overtook them. Ar. rived at Clarens. Went to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know not whom; wen: over the castle again. Met an English party in a carriage; a lady in it fast asleep – fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the world, - excellent! After a slight and short dinner, visited the Château de Clarens. Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the Bosquet de Julie,' &c. &c. : our guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon, to revisit the little

torrent from the hill behind it. The corporal who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as Blucher, and to my mind) as great a man: he was deaf also ; and, thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully, that Hobhouse got out of humour. However, we saw things, from the gallows to the dungeons. Sunset reflected in the lake. Nine o'clock - going to bed. Have to get up at five to-morrow.")

1 See Appendix, Note [F]. ? The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more terrible, but none more beautiful.

3 [" This is one of the most beautiful passages of the poem. The fierce and far delight' of a thunder-storm is here de. scribed in verse almost as vivid as its lightnings. The lire thunder leaping among the rattling crags' - the voice of mountains, as if shouting to each other, the plashing of the big rain - the gleaming of the wide lake, lighted like a phos. phoric sea — present a picture of sublime terror, set of enjoy. ment, often attempted, but never so well. certainly never better, brought out in poetry." - SIR WALTER SCOTT:)

*[The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Lord Byron kept

Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood,
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar,

But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude,

XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, - could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I scek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe - into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak;

But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

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A populous solitude of bees and birds,
And fairy-formed and many-colour'd things,
Who worship him with notes more sweet than

And innocently open their glad wings,
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs,
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings

The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end.

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CIII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love's recess, where vain mnen's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from

those, For 't is his nature to advance or die ; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows

Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity!

XCIX. Clarens ! sweet Clarens!, birthplace of deep Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above The very Glaciers have his colours caught, And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought

In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos,

then mocks.

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- Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,-
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god
Is a pervading life and light,

- So shown
Not on those summits solely, nor alone
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown

His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate

hour. 2

CI. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore,

CV. Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ;3 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame : They were gigantic'minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and

the flame Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more

than smile.

for his sister, closes with the following mournful passage:

la the weather, for this tour, of thirteen days, I have been very fortunate - fortunate in a companion" (Mr. Hobhouse)

fortunate in our prospects, and exempt from even the little petty accidents and delays which often render journeys in a less wild country disappointing. I was disposed to be please ,

bear fatigue, and welcome privation, and have seen some of the noblest views in the world. But in all this, the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of recent and more home desolation, which must accompany me through life, has prered uçon me here; and neither the music of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, the placier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment lightened the weight iipon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity, in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, and beneath me."]

! (Stanzas xcix. to cxv. are exquisite. They have every thing which makes a poetical picture of local and particular

scenery, perfect. They exhibit a miraculous brilliancy and force of fancy; but the very fidelity causes a little constraint and labour of language. The poet seems to have been so engrossed by the attention to give vigour and fire to the imagery, that he both neglected and disdained to render himself more harmonious by diffuser words, which, while they might have improved the effect upon the ear, might have weakened the impression upon the mind. This mastery over new matter - this supply of powers equal not only to an untouched subject, but that subject one of peculiar and unequalled grandeur and beauty -- was sufficient to occupy the strongest poetical faculties, young as the author was, without adding to it all the practical skill of the artist. The stanzas, too, on Vol. taire and Gibbon are discriminative, sagacious, and just. They are among the proofs of that very great variety of talent which this Canto of Lord Byron exhibiis. - SIR E. BRYDGES.)

? See Appendix, Note [G]. 3 Voltaire and Gibbon.


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