**And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."— Curran.

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,

To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like hisbride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her

cause.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more,
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore- where the emigrant stands

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part—

[Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine Years of the Reign of George 11.]

[Mernoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of George III. when Prince of Wales.]

["Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as heavy season'-'flat public '-' don't go off-fordship writes too much won't take advice' declining popularity *. -'deduction for the trade'-' make very little generally lose by him '-'pirated edition "

But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy
chain,
[skies.
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 5

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun—
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance
of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.
Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)
Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied! Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield
their prey?

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, -
To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His !!! and thy country
convince

Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young
prince !"

'foreign edition '--' severe criticisms,' &c., with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer." ."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23. 1821.]

["The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive. are written by the Rev. W. L. B

Of course it is for hem to deny them, if they are not."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept. 17. 1821.]

["After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to cause insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of during today's siesta."—Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept. 20. 1821.]

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

Ay!" Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
Till, like Babel, the new royal dɔme hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !
Spread spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!"

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet

has to flow.

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch never named but with curses and jeers! 1 Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth,

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile.

Without one single ray of her genius, without

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did - let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still
for thee!

["The last line-A name never spoke but with curses or jeers must run, either A name only uttered with curses or jeers, or, A wretch never named but with curses or jeers,' becase as how spoke' is not grammar, except in the House of Commons. So pray put your poetical pen through the MS., and take the least bad of the emendations. Also, if there be any further breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a plaster?"- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept. 19.1

2 ["I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa."Byron Diary, Pisa, 6th Nov. 1821.]

3 [In the same Diary, we find the following painfully in teresting passage: "As far as FAME goes (that is to say, living Fame), I have had my share, perhaps indeed, certainly more than my deserts. Some odd instances have occurred to my own experience of the wild and strange places to which a name may penetrate, and where it may impress. Two years ago -(almost three, being in August, or July, 1819)-I received a letter in English verse from Drontheim in Norway, written by a Norwegian, and full of the usual compliments, &c. &c. In the same month I received an invitation into Holstein, from a Mr. Jacobson, I think, of Hamburgh; also (by the same medium) a translation of

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, [sons,

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. For happy are they now reposing afar,

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! September, 1821.

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. 2

On, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is
wrinkled ?

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
Oh FAME! 3-if I c'er took delight in thy praiss,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821.

Medora's song in the Corsair,' by a Westphallan barones (not Thunderten-tronck '), with some original verees st hers (very pretty and Klopstockish), and a prose translation annexed to them, on the subject of my wife. As they cou cerned her more than me, I sent them to her with Mr. Jcobson's letter. It was odd enough to receive an tuvista to pass the summer in Holstein, while in Italy, from pess Iz I never knew. The letter was addressed to Venice. Mr. J. talked to me of the wild roses growing in the Halstra summer' why, then, did the Cimbri and the Teutones ecze grate? What a strange thing is life and man! Were Fo present myself at the door of the house where my daughter now is, the door would be shut in my face, unless (as ADA impossible) I knocked down the porter; and if I had gets ni that year (and perhaps now) to Drontheim (the furthest town in Norway), or into Holstein, I should have been receivej with open arms into the mansions of strangers and foreigners -attached to me by no tie but that of mind and rum. As far as Fame goes. I have had my share: it has, indeed, been ravened by other human contingencies; and this a greater degree than has occurred to most literary men of a decent rank in life; but, on the whole, I take it that such equipoise Is the condition of humanity."]

STANZAS

TO A HINDOO AIR. 1

Let the young and the brilliant aspire To sing what I gaze on in vain ;

OH!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?

Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!
Oh my lone bosom !-oh! my lonely Pillow!

IMPROMPTU. 2

BENEATH Blessington's eyes
The reclaim'd Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil;
But, if the new Eve

For an Apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil? 3

1823.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

You have asked for a verse: -1 the request
In a rhymer 't were strange to deny ;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years—

There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

1 [These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing]

[With a view of inducing Lord and Lady Blessington to prolong their stay at Genoa. Lord Byron suggested their taking a pretty viña called "Il Paradiso," in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intentions of residing there, he produced this impromptu.—MOORE]

[The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare Jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the one xed on for his own residence, they said “Il Diavolo è ancora entrato in Paradiso."-MOORE.]

For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824,4 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus-and 't is not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! - unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found.
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest. 5

4 [This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile" You were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write." He then produced these noble and affecting verses. — COUNT GAMBA.]

5 [Taking into consideration every thing connected with these verses,the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole, there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition, round which the circumstances and feelings under which it was written cast so touching an interest.-MOORE.]

Pp

-HOR.

[EDITOR'S PREFACE.

THE reader of the "Notices of the Life of Lord Byron" is already in possession of abundant details, concerning the circumstances under which the successive cantos of DON JUAN were produced. We think it right, however, to repeat, in this place, some of the most striking passages of the Poet's own letters, with reference to this performance:

September 19. 1818.-"I have finished the First Canto (a long one, of about 180 octaves) of a poem in the style and manner of Beppo, encouraged by the good success of the same. It is called Don Juan, and is meant to be a little quietly facetious upon every thing. But I doubt whether it is not at least, as far as it has yet gone too free for these very modest days. However, I shall try the experiment anonymously; and if it don't take, it will be discontinued. It is dedicated to Southey, in good, simple, savage verse, upon the Laureate's politics, and the way he got them."

January 25. 1819." Print it entire, omitting, of course, the lines on Castlereagh, as I am not on the spot to meet him. I have acquiesced in the request and representation; and having done so, it is idle to detail my arguments in favour of my own self-love and poeshie;' but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it would stand; if not, fall; the rest is leather and prunello,' and has never yet affected any human production pro or con.' Dulness is the only annihilator in such cases. As to the cant of the day, I despise it, as I have ever done all its other finical fashions, which become you as paint became the ancient Britons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit half Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second writers; in short, something of most who have written before Pope and Read him are worth reading, and much of Pope himself.

most of you don't—but do- and I will forgive you; though the inevitable consequence would be, that you would burn all I have ever written, and all your other wretched Claudians of the day (except Scott and Crabbe) into the bargain."

February 1. 1819. "I have not yet begun to copy out the Second Canto, which is finished, from natural laziness, and the discouragement of the milk and water they have thrown upon the First. I say all this to them as to you, that is, for you to say to them, for I will have nothing underhand. If they had told me the poetry was bad, I would have acquiesced; but they say the contrary, and then talk to me about morality -the first time I ever heard the word from any body who was not a rascal that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it is the most moral of poems; but if people won't discover the moral, that is their fault, not mine."

April 6. 1819.-" You sha'n't make canticles of my cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail: but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish anonymously; it will perhaps be better; but I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine."

August 12. 1819.-"You are right, Gifford is right, Crabbe is right, Hobhouse is right-you are all right, and I am all wrong; but do, pray, let me have that pleasure. Cut me up root and branch; quarter me in the Quarterly; send round my disjecti membra poetæ,' like those of the Levite's concubine; make me, if you will, a spectacle to men and angels; but don't ask me to alter, for I won't:-I am obstinate and lazy and there's the truth. You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny: I have no plan; I had no plan; but I had or have materials; though it, like Tony Lumpkin, I am to be snubbed so when I am in spirits,' the poem will be naught, and the poet turn serious again. If it don't take, I will leave it off where it is, with all due respect to the public; but if continued, it must be in my own way. You might as well make Hamlet (or Diggory) act mad' in a strait waistcoat, as trammel my buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon; their gestures and my thoughts would only be pitiably absurd and Iudicrously constrained. Why, man, the soul of such writing is its licence; at least the liberty of that licence, if one likes -not that one should abuse it. It is like Trial by Jury and

1 [Boswell's Johnson, vol. vii. p. 10. edit. 1835.]

Peerage, and the Habeas Corpus a very fine thing, frat chiefly in the reversion; because no one wishes to be trind for the mere pleasure of proving his possession of the privilege. But a truce with these reflections. You are too earnest and eager about a work never intended to be serious Do you suppose that I could have any intention but to gigle and make giggle?-a playful satire, with as little poetry a could be helped, was what I meant. And as to the indecency. do, pray, read in Boswell what Johnson, the sullen moralist says of Prior and Paulo Purgante."

August 24. 1819.-" Keep the anonymous: it helps trat fun there may be. But if the matter grows serious at Don Juan,' and you feel yourself in a scrape, or me eft own that I am the author. I will never shrink; and if do, I can always answer you in the question of Guatimerib to his minister each oeing on his own coals. I wish that I had been in better spirits; but I am out of sorts, out of nerves. and, now and then (I begin to fear), out of my senses."

Such additional particulars, respecting the production of the later Cantos, as may seem to deserve preservation, shall be given as the poem proceeds In the mean time, we have been much puzzled hoz to put the reader, who does not recollect the incidents of 1819, in possession of any thing like an adequat view of the nature and extent of the animadversion called forth by the first publication of Don Juan.

Cantos I. and II. appeared in London, in July, 1819, without the name either of author or bookseller, in a thin quarto; and the periodical press immediately teemed with the "judicia doctorsnecnon aliorum." It has occurred to us, that on this occasion we might do worse than adopt the example set us in the Preface to the first complete edition of the DUNCIAD. We there read as follows:-" Before we present thee, Reader, with our exercitations en this most delectable Poem (drawn from the many volumes of our Adversaria on modern Authors), we shall here, according to the laudable usage of editors, collect the various judgments of the Learned concerning our Poet: various, indeed !—not only of different authors, but of the same author at different seasons. Nor shall we gather only the Testimonies of such eminent Wits as would of course descend to posterity. and consequently be read without our collection, but we shall likewise, with incredible labour, seek oct for divers others, which, but for this our diligence, could never, at the distance of a few months, appear to the eye of the most curious. Hereby thou may's not only receive the delectation of variety, but also arrive at a more certain judgment, by a grave and circumspect comparison of the witnesses with each other, or of each with himself." In like manter, therefore, let us now gratify our readers, by selecting, in reference to Don Juan, a few of the chief

Testimonies of Authors,

beginning with the most courtly, and decorous, and high-spirited of newspapers,

1. THE MORNING POST. "The greatest anxiety having been excited with respect to the appearance of this Poem, we shall lay a few stanzas before

2 ["Am I now reposing on a bed of flowers"-RotYSON

our readers, merely observing, that, whatever its character, report has been completely erroneous respecting it. If it is not -and truth compels us to adinit it is not)-the most moral production in the world, but more in the Beppo' style, yet is there nothing of the sort which Scandal with her hundred tongues whispered abroad, and Malignity joyfully believed and repeated, contained in it. 'Tis simply a tale and righte marrie concert, flighty, wild, extravagant-immoral too, it must be conlessed; but no arrows are levelled at innocent bosoms, no sacred family peace invaded; and they must have, Indeed, a strange self-consciousness, who can discover their on portrait in any part of it. Thus much, though we cannot advocate the book, truth and justice ordain us to declare."]

Even more complimentary, on this occasion, was the sober, matter-of-fact Thwaitsism of the

II. MORNING HERALD.

"It is hardly safe or discreet to speak of Don Juan, that truant offspring of Lord Byron's muse. It may be said, however, that, with all its sins, the copiousness and flexibility of the English language were never before so triumphantly a, proved — that the same compass of talent — the grave, the gay, the great, the small,' comic force, humour, metaphysics, and of servation-boundless fancy and ethereal beauty, and curious knowledge, curiously applied, have never been blended with the same ielicity in any other poem."

Next comes a harsher voice, from — probably Lees Giffard, Esq., LL.D. at all events, from that stanch organ of high Toryism, the "St. James's Chronicle," still flourishing, but now better known to London readers by its daily title of "The Standard."

III. ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE.

*Of indirect testimony, that the poem comes from the pen of Lord Byron, there is enough to enforce conviction. The same full ecomand of our language, the same thorough knowledge of all that is evil in our nature, the condensed energy of sentiment, and the striking boldness of imagery al: the characteristics by which Childe Harold, the Giaour, and the Corsair, are distinguished shine with kindred splendour in Don Juan. Would we had not to add another point of resemblance, in the utter absence of moral feeling, and the hostility to religion, which betray themselves in almost every passage of the new poem! But Don Juan is, alas: the most licentious poem which has for many years Issued from the English press."

The fourth on our list is "The New Times," conducted in those days by the worthy and learned Sir John Stoddart, LL.D., now Chief Justice of Malta.

IV. NEW TIMES.

"The work is clever and pungent, sometimes reminding us of the earlier and more inspired day of the writer, but chidy characterised by his latter style of scattered versification and accidental poetry. It begins with a few easy prefatory stanzas relative to the choice of a hero; and then details the learned and circumspect education of Don Juan, under his laly mother's eye. Lord Byron knows the additional vigour to be found in drawing from the life; and his portraiture of t literary matron, who is, like Michael Cassio, a great arithmetkian, some touches on the folly of female studies, and a lament over the hen-pecked husbands who are linked to ladies intellectual,' are obviously the results of domestic recollections."

Lord Burleigh himself never shook his head more sagely than

V. THE STATESMAN.

**This is a very large book, affecting many mysteries, but possessing very few assuming much originality, though it hath it not. The author is wrong to pursue so eccentric a Bight. It is too artificial: it is too much like the enterprise of Icarus; and his declination, or, at any rate, that of his book, will be as rapid, if not as disastrous, as the fabled tumble of that ill-starred youth.”

We pass to The Literary Gazette," edited then, as now, by William Jerdan, Esq. of Grove House, Brompton; who is sure of being remembered hereafter for his gallant seizure of Bellingham, the assassin of Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Commons, on the 11th of May, 1812; and the establishment of the first Weekly Journal of Criticism and Belles Lettres in England.

VI. LITERARY GAZETTE.

"There is neither author's nor publisher's name to this book; and the large quarto titlepage looks quite pure, with only seventeen words scattered over its surface: perhaps we cannot say that there is equal purity throughout; but there is not much of an opposite kind, to offend even fastidious criticism, or sour morality. That Lord Byron is the author there is internal proof. The public mind, so agitated by the strange announcement of this stranger, in the newspaper advertise. ments, may repose in quiet; since we can assure our readers that the avatar so dreaded, neither refers to the return of Buonaparte, nor to the coming of any other great national calamity, but simply to the publication of an exceedingly clever and entertaining poem. Even when we blame the too great laxity of the poet, we cannot but feel a high admiration of his talent. Far superior to the libertine he paints, fancifulness and gaiety gild his worst errors, and no brute force is employed to overthrow innocence. Never was English festooned into more luxuriant stanzas than in Don Juan. Like the dolphin sporting in its native waves, at every turn, however grotesque, displaying a new hue and a new beauty, the noble author has shown an absolute control over his means; and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, however whimsical, delighted us with novel and magical associations. The style and nature of this poem appear to us to be a singular mixture of burlesque and pathos, of humorous observation and the higher elements of poetical composition. In ribaldry and drollery, the author is surpassed by many writers who have had their day and sunk into oblivion: but in highly wrought interest, and overwhelming passion, he is

himself alone.'

As the Editor of the Journal above quoted thought fit to insert, soon after, certain extracts from a work then (and probably still) in MS., entitled "Lord Byron's Plagiarisms," he (the Editor) will not think it indecorous in us here to append a specimen of the said work- which is known to have proceeded from no less a pen than that of

VII. ALARIC A. WATTS, ESQ.

are

"A great deal has been said, at various times, about the originality of Lord Byron's conception, as it respects the characters of the heroes and heroines of his poetry. We are, however, disposed to believe, that his dramatis person mostly the property of other exhibitors, although he may sometimes furnish them with new dresses and decorations, with sable hair, unearthly scowls, a vital scorn' of all beside themselves, and such additional improvements as he may consider necessary, in order to enable them to make their appearance with satisfaction to himself, and profit, or at least amusement, to the public. Sooth to say, there are few people better adapted to play the part of a Corsair than his lordship; for he is positively unequalled by any marauder we ever met with or heard of, in the extent and variety of his literary piracies, and unacknowledged obligations to various great men—ay, and women too - living as well as deceased."

The next weekly Journalist whom we hold it proper to quote is "The Champion "-in other words, Thomas Hill, Esq., the generous original patron of Kirke White and Robert Bloomfield, so eloquently lauded by Southey in his Life of the former of these poets then proprietor of

VIII. THE CHAMPION.

"Don Juan is undoubtedly from the pen of Lord Byron; and the mystery in the publication seems to be nothing but a bookseller's trick to excite curiosity and enhance the sale: for although the book is infinitely more immoral than the publications against which the prosecutions of the Society for the Suppression of Vice are directed, we find nothing in it that could be likely to be regarded as actionable. At the bar of moral criticism, indeed, it may and must be arraigned; and against the process and decrees of that court, the subterfuges appealed to will be no protection. Other writers, in their attacks upon whatever mankind may or ought to reverence, make their advances in partial detail; Lord Byron proceeds by general assault. Some, while they war against religion, pay homage to morality; and others, while they subvert all morals, cant about religion; Lord Byron displays at once all the force and energy of his faculties, all the powers of poetry, and the missiles of wit and ridicule, against whatever is respectable in either. There is, of course, a good deal of miscellaneous matter dispersed through the two cantos : and though, in those parts which affect to be critical, the wantonness of wit is sometimes more apparent than the sedateness of impartial judgment; and though the politics occasionally savour more of caustic misanthropy, than of that