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employed about unfit subjects. Examples of one or another of these faults might be quoted, from the first two cantos of Childe Harold, from that portion of the Giaour which precedes the confession, the Bride of Abydos, the Siege of Corinth, Parasina, the Hebrew Melodies, and some of those productions of his later years, which, not being remarkable for any extraordinary exhibition of depravity, even his name could not force into notice. Such passages, indeed, may be found in all his writings, The following are from the Siege of Corinth, neither one of the best, nor one of the worst of his poems.

There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashion'd by long forgotten hands;
Two or three columns, and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown!

Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!

Out

upon Time! who for ever will leave

But enough of the past for the future to grieve

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be;

What we have seen our sons shall see ;

Remnants of things that have pass'd away,
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay!

The tame description in the first four lines, the triteness and exaggeration of the sentiment which follows, the strange exclamation, "Out upon time," and the tripping versification, render the whole passage almost burlesque.

And he saw the lean dogs, beneath the wall,
Hold o'er the dead their carnival,

Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb;

They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh

;

And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull

As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.

If this style of writing, in which the disgusting and the loathsome are assumed as proper subjects for description, should become popular, and we have lately had much of it both in poetry and in prose, we may expect before long to be entertained, with striking poetical details of the symptoms and sufferings of the Elephantiasis or Plica Polonica.

The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit;
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit ;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before ;
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;

Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar.

This, and some of the passages which follow it, have the air of being written in

sport, as examples for a new treatise on the Bathos.

Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter, or for victory,

Mingle there with the volleying thunder,
Which makes the distant cities wonder
How the sounding battle goes,

If with them, or for their foes;

If they must mourn, or may rejoice

In that annihilating voice,

Which pierces the deep hills through and through

With an echo dread and new;

You might have heard it, on that day,

O'er Salamis and Megara;

(We have heard the hearers say,)

Even unto Piræus bay.

There stood an old man-his hairs were white,

But his veteran arm was full of might;

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray,
The dead before him, on that day,

In a semicircle lay.

G

To return, however, to Lord Byron's more powerful poetry, it may be observed, that though his feelings and passions were in their combination and general character, such as to repel the sympathy of the better part of mankind, yet there are passages of great power, in which some personal emotion is expressed, without offence to moral senti

ment.

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Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That
at knows his rider. Welcome to their roar?
Swift be their guidance, whereso'er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

There is something glorious in the energy, which can regard the ocean as a managed

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