But now I seek for other joys—

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave:
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er designed for me:

Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?

Once I behield a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are goue;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;

How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!

Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.

Though gay companions, o'er the bowl,

Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour:

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boisterous joy is but a name.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou!
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign.

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men ;
I seek to shun, not hate, mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind:
Oh! that to me the wings were given,

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.*

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1807.

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky,
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;

* Psalm lv. verse 6.-' And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! then

would I fly away, and be at rest.' beautiful anthem in our language.

This verse also constitutes a part of the most

P

With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore,"
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before;
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,

Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still.
Thou drooping elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine;
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last, farewell!'

When Fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought 'twould sooth my dying hour
(If aught may sooth, when Life resigns her power)
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream methinks 'twere sweet to die,
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arcse,

Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose:
For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade,
Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,

Mixed with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blessed by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear,
Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,

And unremembered by the world beside.

Now, although we are not so much enamoured of Lord Byron's genius as to contend that these poems are the best that ever were written, we do not hesitate to assert they are better than the greater part of those which men, of whatever powers, can write, or have written, at the age of nineteen. They might have been suffered to pass without a very harsh censure from the critics of our own time; and, bearing the stamp of mediocrity, they had been sufficiently damned by Horace's

Non homines, non dii, non concessere columnæ.

But the Edinburgh reviewers thought otherwise. The year 1808 was a time when they had every thing pretty much their own way. Radicalism was a more thriving plant then than it is now, because the people were more heavily burdened, and the government deservedly less popular. A spirit of levelling, and the most ferocious abuse, distinguished the Edinburgh Review' from its periodical compeers then, as much as its dulness does now. Some one of the mercenariesreport says it was the Condottiere himself-resolved to divert the public with the edifying spectacle of a young lord's flagellation; and it must be confessed the critic did not spare the lash.

If he had chosen only to ridicule the poems, they afforded a sufficient opportunity to a man who was bent upon that design. There was even an air of boyish dignity about the young author which might have been fairly laughed at; but there was nothing which could justify the flgraut insolence and malignity with which this Scotch Zoilus handled his victim. As the critic is condemned to everlasting disgrace by the failure of his attempt, and the revenge which it provoked, we have thought fit to add his review of Hours of Idleness.' He is wedded to Lord Byron's fame, and must go down to posterity, chained to the wheels of his lordship's triumphant chariot.

The poesy of this young lord,' says he, belongs to the class which neither gods nor man are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name, like a favorite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that au exception would be taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but as he now

makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and we dare say so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!"-But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to wave it, He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors; sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes: and, while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that, when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged.'-And here we are obliged, however unwillingly, to break in upon the thread of the learned reviewer's critique, that we may call our readers' especial attention to the passage which immediately follows. We have caused it to be printed, as it deserves to be, in large letters; and, if the task of passing sentence on the poor rogue who wrote it were intrusted to us, we would decree only that he should have written over the door of his house (if he has one) while he lives, and upon his grave (if some provision which may supersede the necessity of a grave should not be made for him) when he shall have died- IN TRUTH, IT IS THIS CONSIDERATION ONLY THAT INDUCES US TO GIVE LORD BYRON'S POEMS A PLACE IN OUR REVIEW; BESIDE OUR DESIRE ΤΟ COUNSEL HIM THAT HE DO FORTHWITH ABANDON POETRY, AND TURN HIS TALENTS, WHICH ARE CONSIDERABLE, AND HIS OPPORTUNITIES, WHICH ARE GREAT, TO BETTER ACCOUNT.'

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet-nay, although (which does not always happen) these feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers-is not the whole art of poetry.