ther brings forward in order to wave it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers, is not the whole art of poetry.. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem; and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806, and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing

so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you, adieu !
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory, and you.

Though a tear dim his eye, at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret :
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation;
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows,
that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.

Like

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume.

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton College, should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas 'On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow.'

Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; How welcome to me, your ne'er fading remembrance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd.

6

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers, On a Tear,' might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following:

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffus'd in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail,
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it.

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavʼring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region born,

Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79, a translation, where two words (0λ hevsev) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, where μεσονύντιος ποφ ̓ ὁ ξαιξ, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticizing some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a 'Song of Bards,' is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it, 'What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Otihona. He was, etc. After detaining this 'brown chief' some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to 'raise his fair locks;' then to spread them on the arch of the rainbow;' and 'to smile through the tears of the storm. ' Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are

positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and ti

resome.

6

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should use it as not abusing it;' and particularly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen), of being an infant bard,'-('The artless Helicon I boast is youth;') should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, 'he certainly had no intention of inserting it,' but really, 'the particular request of some friends, 'etc, etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, 'the last and youngest of a noble line,' There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle,

As the author has dedicated so large a' part of his volume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas.

There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp,
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.