Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray;

And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:

Once more through all he bursts his thundering way—

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

Byron was a facile writer, he composed his Bride of Abydos in a single night, and, it is said, without once mending his pen: this is not improbable, since his chirography was not remarkably distinct. The Corsair, which has been thought by some critics his best production, was written in three weeks. Byron is said to have received from Murray, his publisher, for the entire copyrights of his works, upwards of thirty thousand guineas.

Among the numerous fine images which adorn Byron's poetry, Wordsworth considered the two following the most felicitous:—

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind!

For Freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won!

Here are some more beautiful gems :

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge:

How little do we know that which we are!

How less what we may be! The eternal surge

Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

The Rainbow :—

A heavenly chameleon,

The airy child of vapour and the sun,
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion,
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun,
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion,
And blending every colour into one.

Poetry has been sometimes styled the "flower of experience;" and we have an illustration of this in the case of CRABBE, who so well knew, from his own early struggles and privations, both how to pity and portray those of others. He was the poet of the poor, and for the fidelity of his sketches has been called "the Hogarth of verse." Well might Washington Irving-referring to the numerous instances in which the poetic gift has been cradled in obscurity and poverty-quaintly remark, “Genius delights to nestle its off

spring in strange places!" Let us read a few lines addressed by Crabbe to a Library :

Wisdom loves

This seat serene, and virtue's self approves :

Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find,—

The curious here, to feed a craving mind;

Here the devout their peaceful temple choose,

And here the poet meets his favourite muse.

With awe, around these silent walks I tread,

These are the lasting mansions of the dead:

"The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply-
"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!
Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime,

And laugh at all the little strife of time!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT, who has been styled "the potent wizard of romance, at the waving of whose wand came trooping on the stage of life again, gallant knights and ladies fair, foaming chargers and splendid tournaments, with their flashing armour and blazoned shields," was also the poet who loved to sing of knightly deeds of valour and old traditional love-lays.

He was endowed with a wonderful facility of composition. His brain has been compared to a high-pressure engine, the steam of which, was "up" as soon as he entered his study, which was generally at six o'clock in the morning. After three hours' labour came breakfast, and after that he resumed his studies till dinnertime.

Scott is believed to have acquired over half a million of pounds sterling by his various literary labours, an amount altogether unapproached by any other author of ancient or modern times. His own life-story, so full of vicissitude and surprising incident, has been styled a greater marvel than any of his romantic fictions.