The lady referred to in this poem, and in the "Dream," could not have been the same, whom he designated as Thyrza; and in the one case or the other, therefore, he seems to have made an unnecessary demand upon public sympathy.

Upon the publication of his poems, they were reviewed in the Edinburgh Review, in that style of flippant, unfeeling, insulting

criticism, which at one time contributed as

·

much to the celebrity of that work, as the talent actually displayed in it; though since its novelty has passed away, it begins to be regarded in its true character, as equally offensive to right principles and good taste. The effect of such a review upon feelings like those of Byron, may be easily imagined. All his passions were thrown into commotion, and poured their gall through his mind.

It, probably, had a far more important influence upon his future character, than the disappointed affection, which has just been referred to. It served to blast those feelings, by which he might have been allied to his fellowmen, and to render him the proud, insulated, unhappy being, which he subsequently became. It was administering poison to one in a fever. According to Medwin, he said respecting it,—

"When I first saw the review of my Hours of Idleness,' I was furious; in such a rage as I never have been since. I dined that day with Scrope Davies, and drank three bottles of claret to drown it; but it only boiled the more. That critique was a masterpiece of low wit, a tissue of scurrilous abuse. I remember there was a great deal of vulgar trash in it, which was meant

for humour, about people being thankful for what they could get'-'not looking a gift horse in the mouth,' and such stable expressions."

For the wrong which he had suffered, Byron endeavoured, in the first shock of his feelings, to revenge himself, not merely upon the editor of the review and his associates, but upon almost all his contemporaries who had been more favoured than himself in gaining praise as poets. He was sufficiently enraged "to run a muck, and tilt at all he met." He produced his

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." But his satire is violent, indiscriminating, and undignified. It is full of the coarse common places of abuse, with little range of thought or allusion. His blows are random and ineffectual. There is not much

which has even the appearance of being characteristic of the individuals whom he assails. His epithets, and accessory ideas, have often no relation to his main purpose. His attack on Jeffrey, in which he might be expected to put forth his strength, is, we presume, commonly regarded as neither witty nor powerful. Let us take another passage, which is a fair specimen of

short

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden crested haughty Marmion,

Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight;
The gibbet or the field prepar'd to grace,
A mighty mixture of the great and base.

And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though Murray with his Miller may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade.

Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame;
Low may they sink to merited contempt,

And scorn remunerate the mean attempt !
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!

For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,

،

And bid a long good night to Marmion.'

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now,
These are the bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot,
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott.

It requires no great exercise of generosity to forgive such an attack. Byron had not the qualifications of a satirist. He wanted wit, facility of allusion, and quick perception of character. He wanted truth, or its substitute, probability, and just principles of taste and moral judgment. In the latter part of his life, he attempted this style of writing again, and produced a poem, called the Age of Bronze, which hardly emerged