secrets to Mr. Perry, it was very indiscreet and unjustifiable: if he had not done so, Mr. Perry's interference was insolent ; in any event, it was impertinent; and, whether he had or not, the public ought not to have known, as they did not care, where the blame lay.

We are as warm admirers of Lord Byron as Mr. Perry, or any other the best friend he ever had, could be; but it is too much to believe that he was blameless. Upon his own way of stating the case he confessed that he had committed faults against his wife; but he thought she would, and he hinted that she ought to have forgiven them. She thought otherwise: she was at least able to judge of the conduct which it became her to pursue, consistent with her reputation and her rank; and she could hardly stand in need of the counsel of a newspaper editor; his censure, of course, she could only despise.

Lord Byron wrote a poetical farewell to his wife, the only fault in which (and a grievous one it is) seems to us the laborions effort which it displays throughout to make his lordship appear more sinned against than sinning:

FARE THEE WELL:

Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above:

And life is thorny; and youth is vain :

And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain:

*

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;

A dreary sea now flows between

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been..

COLERIDGE's Christabel.

Fare thee well!. and, if for ever,
Still, for ever, fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again!

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yel, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But, by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth—

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say Father!'
Though his care she must forego ?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Just at this period a crazy novel, called Glenarvon,' made its appearance. It was supposed to be written by a lady of quality, a near relation of Lord Byron's, and to whom it was said he had in his boyhood been tenderly attached. She was, however, now a married woman-we had nearly said an old married woman-and ought to have known better than to publish, even though she had been so silly as to write, such a book as 'Glenarvon: It is such puerile and frantic trash that it effectually baffles criticism. The hero is a sort of maudlin compound of genius, sensibility, and villainy. He deserves sometimes to be hanged, and sometimes only to be sent to the treadmill; while all the rest of the characters should be consigned to clean straw and dark cells. Never before Glenarvon' was any book at once so mad and so dull. It is not because it is understood to be the authoress's intention to describe Lord Byron in the person of her hero, and between whom there is not the slightest resemblance, that we notice it; we can make all proper allowances for a lady's painting;' but we rescue it for a moment from the oblivion into which it has so deservedly fallen, for the purpose of extracting from it some of Lord Byron's youthful poetry. Whatever has proceeded from such a pen must be interesting; and, but for this consideration, these vers de societé would not, perhaps, be worth transcribing:

To the Air of Ils ne sont plus.

Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing,
Smooth and untroubled, through the flowery vale:
O'er thy green banks once more the wild rose, blowing,
Greets the young Spring, and scents the passing gale.

Here 'twas, at eve, near yonder tree reposing,
One still too dear first breathed his vows to thee:
Wear this,' he cried, his guileful love disclosing,
Near to thy heart, in memory of me.'
Love-cherished gift! the rose he gave is faded;
Love's blighted flower can never bloom again!
Weep for thy fault-in heart, in mind, degraded—
Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain !
Call back the vows that once to heaven were plighted—
Vows full of love, of innocence, and truth!

Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted-
Call back the dream that blest thy early youth!

Flow, silver stream! though threatening tempests lower,
Bright, mild, and clear, thy gentle waters flow;

Round thy green banks the spring's young blossoms flower-
O'er thy soft waves the balmy zephyrs blow.
-Yet, all in vain; for never spring, arraying
Nature in charms, to thee can make it fair :
Ill-fated love clouds all thy path, portraying
Years past of bliss, and future of despair.

'Farewell.'

Ah! frown not thus-nor turn from me;

I must not dare not-look on thee:
Too well thou know'st how dear thou art-
'Tis hard, but yet 'tis best, to part:
I wish thee not to share my grief-
It seeks, it hopes, for no relief.

• Farewell.'

Come, give thy hand! what though we part?

Thy name is fixed within my heart:

I shall not change, nor break the vow
I made before, and plight thee now;
For, since thou may'st not live for me,
'Tis sweeter far to die for thee.

• Farewell.'

Thou'lt think of me when I am gone;

None shall undo what I have done :

Yet even thy love I would resign

To save thee from remorse like mine.
Thy tears shall fall upon my grave:

They still may bless-they cannot save.

There are some other verses in the novel, but they are not by Lord Byron.

Lord Byron's separation from his wife made him resolve again to go abroad, and he put this resolution into practice towards the close of the year 1816. Immediately before his departure he wrote the following little song to his friend Moore: