secrets to Mr. Perry, it was very indiscreet and unjustifiable: if he had not done so, Mr. Perry's interference was insolent; in any event, it was impertinent; and, whether he had or not, the public ought not to have known, as they did not care, where the blame lay. We are as warm admirers of Lord Byron as Mr. Perry, or any other the best friend he ever had, could be; but it is too much to believe that he was blameless. Upon his own way of stating the case he confessed that he had committed faults against his wife; but he thought she would, and he hinted that she ought to have forgiven them. She thought otherwise: she was at least able to judge of the conduct which it became her to pursue, consistent with her reputation and her rank; and she could hardly stand in need of the counsel of a newspaper editor;-his censure, of course, she could only despise. Lord Byron wrote a poetical farewell to his wife, the only fault in which (and a grievous one it is) seems to us the laborious effort which it displays throughout to make his lordship appear more sinned against than sinning: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Founded on another's woe. Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st sec, All my faults perchance thou knowest, Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted- Just at this period a crazy novel, called Glenarvon,' made its appearance. It was supposed to be written by a lady of quality, a near relation of Lord Byron's, and to whom it was said he had in his boyhood been tenderly attached. She was, however, now a married woman-we had nearly said an old married woman-and ought to have known better than to publish, even though she had been so silly as to write, such a book as Glenarvon.' It is such puerile and frantic trash that it effectually baffles criticism. The hero is a sort of maudlin compound of genius, sensibility, and villainy. He deserves sometimes to be hanged, and sometimes only to be sent to the treadmill; while all the rest of the characters should be consigned to clean straw and dark cells. Never before Glenarvon' was any book at once so mad and so dull. It is not because it is understood to be the authoress's intention to describe Lord Byron in the person of her hero, and between whom there is not the slightest resemblance, that we notice it; we can make all proper allowances for a 'lady's painting;' but we rescue it for a moment from the oblivion into which it has so deservedly fallen, for the purpose of extracting from it some of Lord Byron's youthful poetry. Whatever has proceeded from such a pen must be interesting; and, but for this consideration, these vers de societé would not, perhaps, be worth transcribing : To the Air of Ils ne sont plus. Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing, Smooth and untroubled, through the flowery vale. Here 'twas, at eve, near yonder tree reposing, One still too dear first breathed his vows to thee: Call back the scenes in which thy soul delighted- 'Farewell.' Ah! frown not thus-nor turn from me; I must not dare not-look on thee: 'Tis hard, but yet 'tis best to part: I wish thee not to share my grief- 'Farewell.' Come, give thy hand! what though we part? 'Farewell.' Thou'lt think of me when I am gone; None shall undo what I have done : Yet even thy love I would resign To save thee from remorse like mine. Thy tears shall fall upon my grave: They still may bless-they cannot save. There are some other verses in the novel, but they are not by Lord Byron. Lord Byron's separation from his wife made him resolve again to go abroad, and he put this resolution into practice towards the close of the year 1816. Immediately before his departure he wrote the following little song to his friend Moore: My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; Here's a sigh to those who love me, Though the ocean roar around me, Were't the last drop in the well, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. In that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be-Peace to thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! |