454 SIGNAL SUCCESS WITH MOST DIFFICULT SUBJECT.

There can be no more remarkable proof of the greatness of Lord Byron's genius than the spirit and interest he has contrived to communicate to his picture of the often-drawn and difficult scene of the breaking up from Brussels before the great battle. It is a trite remark, that poets generally fail in the representation of great events, when the interest is recent, and the particulars are consequently clearly and commonly known: and the reason is obvious: For as it is the object of poetry to make us feel for distant or imaginary occurrences nearly as strongly as if they were present and real, it is plain that there is no scope for her enchantments, where the impressive reality, with all its vast preponderance of interest, is already before us, and where the concern we take in the gazette far outgoes any emotion that can be conjured up in us by the help of fine descriptions. It is natural, however, for the sensitive tribe of poets, to mistake the common interest which they then share with the unpoetical part of their countrymen, for a vocation to versify; and so they proceed to pour out the lukewarm distillations of their phantasies upon the unchecked effervescence of public feeling! All our bards, accordingly, great and small, and of all sexes, ages, and professions, from Scott and Southey down to hundreds without names or additions, have adventured upon this theme-and failed in the management of it! And while they yielded to the patriotic impulse, as if they had all caught the inspiring summons

"Let those rhyme now who never rhym'd before
And those who always rhyme, rhyme now the more-

The result has been, that scarcely a line to be remembered had been produced on a subject which, probably, was thought, of itself, a secure passport to immortality. It required some courage to venture on a theme beset with so many dangers, and deformed with the wrecks of so many former adventurers;—and a theme, too, which, in its general conception, appeared alien to the prevailing tone of Lord Byron's poetry. See, however, with what easy strength he enters upon it, and with how much

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grace he gradually finds his way back to his own peculiar vein of sentiment and diction.

"There was a sound of revelry by night;
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!"

"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gath'ring tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings; such as press
The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: --who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?

"And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The must'ring squadron, and the clatt'ring car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Rous'd up the soldier ere the morning star."

"And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass!
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure! when this fiery mass

Of living valour rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low."

After some brief commemoration of the worth and valour that fell in that bloody field, the author turns to the many hopeless mourners that survive to lament their extinction; the many broken hearted families, whose incurable sorrow is enhanced by the national exultation that still points, with importunate joy, to the scene of their destruction. There is a richness and There is a richness and energy in the following passage which is peculiar to Lord Byron,

BONAPARTE.

among all modern poets, a throng of glowing images, poured forth at once, with a facility and profusion which must appear mere wastefulness to more economical writers, and a certain negligence and harshness of diction, which can belong only to an author who is oppressed with the exuberance and rapidity of his conceptions.

"The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake

Those whom they thirst for! though the sound of Fame
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake

The fever of vain longing; and the name

So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

"They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn!
The tree will wither long before it fall;

The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall

In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;

The bars survive the captive they enthral;

The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun;

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:

"Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies; and makes
A thousand images of one that was,

The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold,
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
Yet withers on till all without is old,

Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold."

There is next an apostrophe to Napoleon, graduating into a series of general reflections, expressed with infinite beauty and earnestness, and illustrated by another cluster of magical images; - but breathing the very essence of misanthropical disdain, and embodying opinions which we conceive not to be less erroneous than revolting. After noticing the strange combination of grandeur and littleness which seemed to form the character of that greatest of all captains and conquerors, the author proceeds,―

"Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,

Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

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When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smil'd
With a sedate and all enduring eye;

When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him pil'd.
Sager than in thy fortunes: For in them
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show
That just habitual scorn which could contemn
Men and their thoughts. "Twas wise to feel; not so
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,

And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow:
"Tis but a worthless world to win or lose!-
So hath it prov'd to thee, and all such lot who choose.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

And there hath been thy bane! There is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure; nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

This makes the madmen, who have made men mad
By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things,
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they fool;
Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule.
Their breath is agitation; and their life,

A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last;
And yet so nurs'd and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die!
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering! or a sword laid by
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

He who ascends the mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks; and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led."

458

BYRON

DISSENT FROM HIS OPINION.

This is splendidly written, no doubt - but we trust it is not true; and as it is delivered with much more than poetical earnestness, and recurs, indeed, in other forms in various parts of the volume, we must really be allowed to enter our dissent somewhat at large. With regard to conquerors, we wish with all our hearts that the case were as noble as the author represents it: but we greatly fear they are neither half so unhappy, nor half so much hated as they should be. On the contrary, it seems plain enough that they are very commonly idolised and admired, even by those on whom they trample; and we suspect, moreover, that in general they actually pass their time rather agreeably, and derive considerable satisfaction from the ruin and desolation of the world. From Macedonia's madman to the Swede-from Nimrod to Bonaparte, the hunters of men have pursued their sport with as much gaiety, and as little remorse, as the hunters of other animals and have lived as cheerily in their days of action, and as comfortably in their repose, as the followers of better pursuits. For this, and for the fame which they have generally enjoyed, they are obviously indebted to the great interests connected with their employment, and the mental excitement which belongs to its hopes and hazards. It would be strange, therefore, if the other active, but more innocent spirits, whom Lord Byron has here placed in the same predicament, and who share all their sources of enjoyment, without the guilt and the hardness which they cannot fail of contracting, should be more miserable or more unfriended than those splendid curses of mankind: - And it would be passing strange, and pitiful, if the most precious gifts of Providence should produce only unhappiness, and mankind regard with hostility their greatest benefactors.

We do not believe in any such prodigies. Great vanity and ambition may indeed lead to feverish and restless efforts to jealousies, to hate, and to mortification—but these are only their effects when united to inferior abilities. It is not those, in short, who actually surpass mankind, that are unhappy; but those who struggle in vain to surpass them: And this moody temper, which eats into