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more than fair and just to examine my writings argumentatively, but nobody has any business to enter the lists with a dagger for my throat, when the rules of the combat allow him to play with tilts only." Lord Byron and Mr. scrupu lously avoided touching upon any subject in a manner that was likely to be irksome to me, but once or twice, when their peculiar opinions were betrayed in the course of conversation, I did not choose to lose the opportunity of declaring my own sentiments upon the same subjects, as explicitly as the nature of the conversation would admit. Among other things, I suggested the danger there must be of offending Omniscient Wisdom, by arraigning what we could not always understand, and expressed my belief that the Supreme Being expects humility from us, in the same manner as we exact deference from our inferiors in attainments or condition. Lord Byron and Mr. thought otherwise, and the former expressed himself in the celebrated lines of Milton

"Will God incense bis ire

For such a petty trespass, and not praise Rather your dauntless virtue, whom the pain Of death denounced, whatever thing death be, Deterred not from achieving what might lead To happier life.”—B. IX. 692–697.

Paradise Lost.

I ventured to reply that his Lordship's sentiments were not unlike those expressed in the Virgilian line-"Flectere si nequeo Superos, Acheronta movebo."

During the whole interview, my eyes were fixed very earnestly upon the countenance of the extraordinary man before me. I was desirous of examining every line in his face, and of judging from the movements of his lips, eyes, and brow, what might be passing within his bosom. Perhaps he was not unaware of this, and determined to keep a more steady command over them. A slight colour occasionally crossed his cheeks; and once, in particular, when I inadvertently mentioned the name of a lady, who was formerly said to take a deep interest in his Lordship, and related an anecdote told me of her by a mu

tual friend-"I have often been very foolish," said her ladyship, "but never wicked." At hearing this, a blush stole over the noble bard's face, and he observed, "I believe her."

Once, and once only, he betrayed a slight degree of vanity. He was speaking of a narrow escape that he had lately had in riding through a torrent. His mare lost her footing, and there was some danger of her being unable to recover herself. "Not, however," said he, "that I should have been in any personal hazard, for it would not be easy to drown me." He alluded to his swimming, in which he certainly surpassed most men.

Once also he seemed to think he had spoken incautiously, and took pains to correct himself. He was alluding to an invitation to dinner that had been given to him by an English gentleman in Genoa. "I did not go, for I did not wish to make any new -I did not feel that I could depart from a rule I had made, not to dine in Genoa.".

This reminds me of an anecdote related to me by the Countess D--, the lady of a late governor of Genoa, who was anxious to be introduced to Lord Byron. A note was written to that effect, and the answer explained in as polite language as the subject would permit, that he had never complied with such a wish as that which the Countess did him the honour to entertain, without having occasion afterwards to regret it. In spite of this ungallant refusal of a personal introduction, notes frequently passed between the parties, with presents of books, &c., but they never met.

When I took my leave of Lord Byron, he surprised me by saying, "I hope we shall meet again, and perhaps it will soon be in England." For though he seemed to have none of that prejudice against his native country that has been laid to his charge, yet there was a want of ingenuousness in throwing out an intimation of what was not likely to take place. Upon the whole, instead of avoiding any mention of England, he evidently took an interest in what was

going on at home, and was glad, when the conversation led to the mention of persons and topics of the day, by which he could obtain any information, without directly asking for it.

Such was my interview with one of the most celebrated characters of the present age, in which, as is generally the case, most of my anticipations were disappointed. There was nothing eccentric in his manner-nothing

THE

beyond the level of ordinary clever
men in his remarks or style of con-
versation, and certainly not anything
to justify the strange things that have
been said of him by many, who, like
the French rhapsodist, would describe
him as half angel and half devil.

Toi, dont le monde encore ignore le vrai nom,
Esprit mysterieux, mortel, ange, ou demon,
Qui que tu sois, Byron, bon ou fatal genie;
La nuit est ton sejour, l'horreur est ton domain,

COTEMPORARY AUTHORS.-MR. SOUTHEY.
(Extracted from Blackwood's Magazine.)

HE worthy Laureate is one of those men of distinguished talents and industry, who have not attained to the praise or the influence of intellectual greatness, only because they have been so unfortunate as to come too late into the world. Had Southey flourished forty or fifty years ago, and written half as well as he has written in our time, he might have ranked nem, con. with the first of modern critics, of modern historians, perhaps even of modern poets. The warmth of his feelings and the flow of his style would have enabled him to throw all the prosers of that day into the shadeHis extensive erudition would have won him the veneration of an age in which erudition was venerable-His imaginative power would have lifted him like an eagle over the versifiers who then amused the public with their feeble echoes of the wit, the sense, and the numbers of Pope. He could not have been the Man of the Age; but, taking all his manifold excellences and qualifications into account, he must have been most assuredly Somebody, and a great deal more than somebody.

How different is his actual case! As a poet, as an author of imaginative works in general, how small is the space he covers, how little is he talked or thought of! The Established Church of Poetry will hear of nobody but Scott, Byron, Campbell: and the Lake Methodists themselves will scarcely permit him to be called a burning and shining light in the same day with their Wordsworth-even their Coleridge.

In point of fact, he himself is now the only man who ever alludes to Southey's poems. We can suppose youngish readers start when they come upon some note of his in the Quarterly, or in his new books of history, referring to "the Madoc," or "the Joan," as to something universally known and familiar. As to criticism and politics of the day, he is but one of the Quarterly reviewers, and scarcely one of the most influential of them. He puts forth essays half antiquarianism, half prosing, with now and then a dash of a sweet enough sort of literary mysticism in them-and more frequently a display of pompous self-complacent simplicity, enough to call a smile into the most iron physiognomy that ever grinned. But these lucubrations produce no effect upon the spirit of the time. A man would as soon take his opinions from his grandmother as from the Doctor. The whole thing looks as if it were made on purpose to be read to some antediluvian village club-The fat parson-the solemn leech-the gaping schoolmaster, and three or four simpering Tabbies. There is nothing in common to him and the people of this world. We love himwe respect him, we admire his diligence, his acquisitions, his excellent manner of keeping his note-books-If he were in orders, and one had an advowson to dispose of, one could not but think of him. But good, honest, worthy man, only to hear him telling us his opinion of Napoleon Buonaparte !--and then the quotations from Coleridge, Wordsworth, Lamb, Lan

L

dor, Withers, old Fuller, and all the rest of his favourites-and the little wise-looking maxims, every one of them as old as the back of Skiddaw and the delicate little gleams of pathos -and the little family stories and allusions and all the little parentheses of exultation-well, we really wonder after all, that the Laureate is not more popular.

joke a great deal too far.-People do at last, however good-natured, get weary of seeing a respectable man walking his hobby-horse.

Melancholy to say, the History of the Peninsular War, in spite of an intensely interesting theme, and copious materials of real value, is little better than another Caucasus of lumber, after all. If the campaigns of Buonaparte The first time Mr. Southey attempt- were written in the same style, they ed regular historical composition he would make a book in thirty or forty succeeded admirably. His Life of quarto volumes, of 700 pages. He is Nelson is truly a master-piece ;-a overlaying the thing completely-he brief-animated--glowing--straight- is smothering the Duke of Wellington. forward-manly English work, in two volumes duodecimo. That book will be read three hundred years hence by every boy that is nursed on English ground. All his bulky historical works are, comparatively speaking, failures. His History of Brazil is the most unreadable production of our time. Two or three elegant quartos about a single Portuguese colony! Every little colonel, captain, bishop, friar, discussed at as much length as if they were so many Cromwells or Loyolas --and why?-just for this one simple reason, that Dr. Southey is an excellent Portugueze scholar, and has an excellent Portugueze library. The whole affair breathes of one sentiment, and but one.—Behold, O British Public! what a fine thing it is to understand this tongue--fall down and worship me! I am a member the Lisbon Academy,and yet I was born in Bristol, and am now living at Keswick. This inordinate vanity is an admirable condiment in a small work, and when the subject is really possessed of a strong interest. It makes one read with more earnestness of attention and sympathy. But carried to this height, and exhibited in such a book as this, it is utter nonsense. It is carrying the

The underwood has increased, is increasing, and ought without delay to be smashed. Do we want to hear the legendary history of every Catholic saint, who happens to have been buried or worshipped near the scene of some of General Hill's skirmishes? What, in the devil's name, have we to do with all these old twelfth century miracles and visions, in the midst of a history of Arthur Duke of Wellington, and his British army? Does the Doctor mean to write his Grace's Indian campaigns in the same style, and to make the pin whereon to hang all the wreck and rubbish of his commonplace book for Kehama, as he has here done with the odds and ends that he could not get stuffed into the notes on Roderick and My Cid? Southey should have lived in the days of 2600 page folios, triple columns, and double indexes-He would then have been set to a corpus of something at once, and been happy for life. Never surely was such a mistake as for him to make his appearance in an age of restlessly vigorous thought, disdainful originality of opinion, intolerance for long-windedness, and scorn of mountains in labour -Glaramara and Penmanmaur among the rest.

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IN

THE IMPROVISATRICE, AND OTHER POEMS.

(Lond. Lit. Gaz.)

N our Review of this exquisite production last week, the beauties we had marked out for quotation so far overstepped our limits, that we were reluctantly compelled to abridge our extracts even after they were printed. Thus the following Moorish Romance got excluded; and we are sure that every reader of taste and admirer of genius will thank us for now restoring the omission.

SOFTLY through the pomegranate groves
Came the gentle song of the doves;
Shone the fruit in the evening light,
Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright;
Shook the date-trees each tufted head,
As the passing wind their green nuts shed;
And, like dark columns amid the sky
The giant palms ascended on high;
And the mosque's gilded minaret
Glistened and glanced as the daylight set.
Over the town a crimson haze

Gathered and hung of the evening's rays;
And far beyond, like molten gold,
The burning sands of the desert rolled.
Far to the left, the sky and sea
Mingled their gay immensity;

And with the flapping sail and idle prow
The vessels threw their shades below.
Far down the beach, where a cypress grove
Casts its shade round a little cove,
Darkling and green, with just a space
For the stars to shine on the water's face,
A small bark lay, waiting for night
And its breeze to waft and hide its flight.
Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight,
For which those furled-up sails await,
To a garden, fair as those

Where the glory of the rose
Blushes, charmed from the decay
That wastes other blooms away;
Gardens of the fairy tale
Told, till the wood-fire grows pale,
By the Arab tribes, when night,
With its dim and lovely light,
And its silence, suiteth well
With the magic tales they tell.
Through that cypress avenue,
Such a garden meets the view,
Filled with flowers-flowers that seem
Lighted up by the sunbeam;
Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves
Green as Hope before it grieves
O'er the false and broken-hearted,
All with which its youth has parted,
Never to return again,
Save in memories of pain!

There is a white rose in yon bower,
But holds it yet a fairer flower:

And music from that cage is breathing,
Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing,
A low song from a lonely dove,

A song such exiles sing and love,
Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies-
Now to be breathed of but in sighs!

But fairer smile and sweeter sigh
Are near when LEILA'S step is nigh!
with eyes dark as the midnight time,
With sun-rays from within ; yet now
Lingers a cloud upon that brow,

Yet lighted like a summer clime

Though never lovelier brow was given
To Houri of an Eastern heaven!
Her eye is dwelling on that bower,
As every leaf and every flower
Were being numbered in her heart;

There are no looks like those which dwell On long remembered things, which soon Must take our first and last farewell!

Day fades apace; another day,
That maiden will be far away,
A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea,
And bound for lovely Italy,

Her mother's land! Hence, on her breast
The cross beneath a Moorish vest;

And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem
Like music murmuring in a dream,
When in our sleeping ear is ringing
The song the nightingale is singing;
When by that white and funeral stone,
Half hidden by the cypress gloom,
The hymn the mother taught her child

Is sung each evening at her tomh.
But quick the twilight time has past,
Like one of those sweet calms that last
A moment and no more, to cheer
The turmoil of our pathway here.

The bark is waiting in the bay,
Night darkens round :-LEILA, away!
Far, ere to-morrow, o'er the tide,
Or wait and be-ABDALLA'S bride!

She touched her lute-never again
Her ear will listen to its strain!

She took her cage, first kissed the breastThen freed the white dove prisoned there :

It paused one moment on her hand,

Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health, That sighed from every scented blossom;

And taking from each one a leaf,

Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom.
Then sought the secret path again
She once before had traced, when lay
A Christian in her father's chain;

And gave him gold, and taught the way
To fly. She thought upon the night,
When, like an angel of the light,
She stood before the prisoner's sight,
And led him to the cypress grove,
And showed the bark and hidden cove;

And bade the wandering captive flee,
In words he knew from infancy!
And then she thought how for her love
He had braved slavery and death,
That he might only breathe the air
Made sweet and sacred by her breath.
She reached the grove of cypresses,-
Another step is by her side:
Another moment, and the bark

Bears the fair Moor across the tide !

'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight,
To mark her eyes,-now dark, now bright,
As now they met, now shrank away,
[day.
From the gaze that watched and worshipped their
They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale
Just waved the maiden's silver veil-
Just lifted a curl, as if to show

The cheek of rose that was burning below:
And never spread a sky of blue

More clear for the stars to wander through!
And never could their mirror be

A calmer or a lovelier sea!

For every wave was a diamond gleam:
And that light vessel well might seem
A fairy ship, and that graceful pair
Young Genii, whose home was of light and air!

Another evening came, but dark;

The storm clouds hovered round the bark
Of misery :-they just could see
The distant shore of Italy,

As the dim moon through vapours shone-
A few short rays, her light was gone.
O'er head a sullen scream was heard,
As sought the land the white sea-bird,
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming,
Upon the waves a light is gleaming-
Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death,
To light the night-black depths beneath.
The vessel rolled amid the surge;

The winds howled round it, like a dirge
Sung by some savage race. Then came
The rush of thunder and of flame:
It showed two forms upon the deck,-
One clasped around the other's neck,
As there she could not dream of fear-
In her lover's arms could danger be near?
He stood and watched her with the eye
of fixed and silent agony.

The waves swept on; he felt her heart
Beat close and closer yet to his !
They burst upon the ship!—the sea
Has closed upon their dream of bliss!
Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep,
Beneath that ancient cedar tree,
Whose solitary stem has stood

For years alone beside the sea!
The last of a most noble race,
That once had there their dwelling-place,
Long past away! Beneath its shade,
A soft green couch the turf had made :-
And glad the morning sun is shining
On those beneath the boughs reclining.
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw

The dark hair of the Moorish maid,
Like a veil, floating o'er the breast,
Where tenderly her head was laid;

And yet her lover's arm was placed
Clasping around the graceful waist!
But then he marked the youth's black curls
Were dripping wet with foam and blood;
And that the maiden's tresses dark

Were heavy with the briny flood!
Woe for the wind!-woe for the wave!
They sleep the slumber of the grave!
They buried them beneath that tree!
It long had been a sacred spot.
Soon it was planted round with flowers
By many who had not forgot;
Or yet lived in those dreams of truth,
The Eden birds of early youth,
That make the loveliness of love;
And called the place "THE MAIDEN'S COVE,"
That she who perished in the sea
Might thus be kept in memory.

The Improvisatrice, a poem of about fifteen or sixteen hundred lines, is followed by a number of miscellaneous pieces, which display the great versatility of the author. Two or three only are of a playful kind; for descriptive power, pathos, and imagination, are unquestionably her chief characteristics. And though Love has always been, as the mighty northern minstrel has finely expressed it,

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The noblest theme

That ever waked the poet's dream;

our fair bard has, in several of these minor pieces, shown that nearly an equal degree of tenderness, fancy, and feeling, can be thrown into subjects of a different order. St. George's Hospital, the Deserter, the Covenanters, Gladesmuir, The Soldier's Funeral, The Female Convict, Crescentius, Home, The Soldier's Grave, and others, are forcible and admirable examples: While Rosalie, The Bayadere, The Minstrel of Portugal, The Guerilla Chief, the Legend of the Rhine,&c. are more or less connected with the master passion of the human soul, and with tales founded on its influence. The Bayadere is an Oriental Romance; and we do not detract from Lalla Rookh, when we say it is the only composition in the English language which may bear a close comparison with that popular poem. Rosalie is, on the contrary, a domestic story of hapless affection, and full of the most touching passages. We will cite a few brief instances which are the easiest detached. It opens with this bold yet sweet exordium:

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