the fault is in the connexion itself, and that if it is susceptible of justification, or palliation at all, it is under exactly such circumstances as it existed with them, when all parties agree in it as a matter of custom or convenience, and when it is openly proclaimed, and quietly and kindly indulged, in "a quite domestic" manner. The latter sentence of the account, suppressed by the Reviewer, because it has a bearing favourable to Byron's stoical resignation, and affectionate remembrance of his friends, is as follows. "His kindness and attention to the Guiccioli have been invariable. A three year's constancy proves that he is not altogether so unmanageable by a sensible woman as might be supposed. In fact no man is so easily led; but he is not to be driven. His spirits are good except when he speaks of Shelley and Williams.* He tells me he has not taken one voyage in his yacht since their loss, and has taken a disgust to sailing."

Byron in Italy, may at the least, be excused, for such intercourse, though we cannot but condemn the custom in unqualifi ed terms, nor too much deprecate such a state of society, nor too severely denounce the wretch who should attempt to introduce it here. All his later writings are filled with good, but bitterly sarcastic lessons, against conjugal infidelity; and it is to be lamented, that he ever allowed any feeling, under any circumstances, to induce him to commit so great an offence against the general laws and well-being of society. This was his greatest

fault; and to a fair view, the only one, for which he deserves severe reprobation. If the Reviewer had directed against this foul blot, the stream of his hatred, mighty as it is, our little fountain should have joined to swell the torrent; but when he would overwhelm forever, some of the fairest scenes the sun of human intellect ever brightened, we must withhold our own, and turn aside his might, as far as we are able.

Nothing more fully proves the unfairness of the Reviewer, than his heartless suppression of the last quotation. It shows, forcibly what he labours to disprove, that Byron had kind, affectionate, social feelings; and with many fine passages in his writings, also shows that he cherished with an almost remarkable fondness, and a sort of religious veneration "the memory of buried love." Take the following from the dying confessions of the Giaour.

*They were both drowned, and previously, one of Byron's favourite amusements, as js well known, was sailing.

In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;
But heaven in wrath would turn away,
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
And what have I to do with fame?
I do not ask him not to mourn,

Such cold request might sound like scorn:
And what than friendship's manly tear
May better grace a brother's bier?
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him-what thou dost behold!
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wreck by passion left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf,
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief.

He was, in truth, of a most social disposition, he said,

We loathe what none are left to share :
Even bliss-'twere wo alone to bear.

and if he had few friends, the fault was not wholly his. It is undeniable, that if a youth once steps from the path of sobriety, his return is forever barred to the company of those who clan together in external piety. Instead of following to lead him gently back, with mild persuasion and sweet counsel, they shrink away with pious horror, as from contamination, and leave their brother to be lost in the wilderness of vice, or pursue his track alone. Few, very few can endure solitude, and if they are driven from good society, they must fly to bad. Such was the fact with Byron in his youth; till with a heroic effort, he renounced the world and its wickedness, (for he was denied its goodness) and retired to the companionship of his own magnificent thoughts and feelings. From this time forth he railed at the hypocrisy and the bigotted superstitions of mankind; "he held the mirror up to nature;" for, condemn as you may, what he says, it is truth

unvarnished by hope or fear; and "truth is better than boasting." He seemed to view men and manners, and all the thoughts and passions of all the kings and kingdoms upon the earth, as though he sat upon an eminence governing the display of some variegated pageant, whose puppets were his play-things.

One point more of his life and character remains to be considered, his devotion to Greece. Upon this the Reviewer says, with his characteristic truth and ingenuousness, "weary of life, disgusted with his pursuits, sensible that he had wantonly perverted his extraordinary powers, and become an object of universal disapprobation; yet desirous as ever, of being distinguished by the admiration of the world, he was led to change the scene, and undertake his expedition to Greece." "But no one we suppose imagines that he rendered, or was capable of rendering, any important services to the cause of that country." "It would have been unhappy for Greece, if Lord Byron had been her Lafayette."

Was it then nothing but a suicidal recklessness, or a paltry ambition that led the poet to Greece? we had thought that he had some feeling and affection for that land, while for ten years, he continued to utter the thrilling tone that startled the world, and roused the slaves to fight for freedom. Was he incapable of rendering any assistance to the Grecian cause? The Grecian orator, at his funeral, thought otherwise when before their mourning armies, he said, "he came to share our sufferings and our hard ships; assisting us not only with his wealth, of which he was profuse; not only with his judgment, of which he has given us so many salutary examples; but with his sword, which he was preparing to unsheath, against our barbarous and tyrannical oppressors." Would it, indeed, have been unhappy for Greece, if he had succeeded in his desire, to heal the divisions among the chieftains, to reconcile conflicting interests, and to lead her armies triumphantly through the war? Prince Mavrocordato thought otherwise, when he proclaimed " a general mourning for twenty-one days" throughout Western Greece, and in his proclamation, said, "The loss of this illustrious individual is undoubtedly to be deplored by all Greece; but it must be more especially a subject of lamentation at Missolonghi, where his generosity has been so conspicuously displayed, and of which he had even become a citizen, with the ulterior determination of participating in the dangers of the war." The whole world thought otherwise when it echoed the wailing note which came from that afflicted land.

But the Reviewer, whose life is spent like a recluse, in the scholastic labours of the study, may know better than they all-at any rate, he has the glorious satisfaction of being alone in his opinion of Byron's life and character, with which we have now done, as well as of his writings, which we shall hereafter consider.

[TO BE CONTINUed.]

THE MONITORY RELICK.

Stanzas written for Mrs. M. W. D., of Georgetown D. C. and supposed to be addressed by her to a lock

of her deceased Mother's hair.

Here, hallow'd relick on this kindred breast-
Dear as the vital throb that swells my heart-
Embalm'd in pure affection, thou shalt rest
'Till Death's resistless mandate bids us part.

What power beyond the force of words to tell,
Beyond e'en Fancy's utmost reach to know,
In thee-endear'd remembrancer! doth dwell
To make my bosom's deep emotions flow!

Thou call'st around me childhood's happy days,
When I, a prattler in my Mother's arms,
Delighted drew her kind maternal gaze,

And heard her fondly praise my infant charms.

When nought could win me from her lov'd embrace,
Or with the smiles in tender sweetness vie

That shed their lustre o'er her placid face,

And beam'd in fondness from her melting eye :—

When life was one bright scene of joy and bloom,
Ere Sorrow o'er my rapturous spirits cast,
Her withering shade, or touch'd my brow with gloom,
And Time on seraph pinions o'er me past:—

VOL. 1.--No. 4.

4

When shelter'd in my dear paternal home
Its happy group of infancy was seen,
Ere yet our feet or wishes dar'd to roam
Beyond the garden's flower-enamell'd green.

Thou bring'st in vivid light before my view
Domestic scenes, in which a Mother's love,
With gentle zeal-to her vocation true-
Transfer'd my hopes to blissful worlds above!

Again methinks I hear her fervid voice
Whose pious counsels taught this holy truth,
That Faith can make expiring age rejoice,
And give exulting hopes to dying youth.

That Mother's counsels, how divinely pure-
How free from all deceptive wiles of Art!
That Mother's love, how tender and how sure-
How boundless, deep and glowing from the heart!

Before my memory's vision thou can'st bring,
In all its gentleness, her sainted form;
Inspire with strength my spirit's drooping wing,
And teach me how to brave affliction's storm.

A precious virtue in thee seems to dwell,

That lifts my soul from earthly scenes to heaven; While by the magic of its sacred spell,

Life's vain and giddy thoughts are from me driven.

Thou seem'st to breathe this lesson through my breast"For those, like her, who do the will of God,

There is beyond the grave eternal rest—

Then walk the path thy pious Mother trod.”—

Propitious monitor! In thee I find

A friend whose solemn promptings ne'er mislead,

But faithful to the never-dying mind,

Inspire the holy thought, the virtuous deed.