holiest recess of the Temple of the Muses. As their legitimate High-priest, he might have commanded an universal reverence, and an unqualified approbation. He has falsified these bright characteristics, that stamped him for " dignity, composed and high exploit." There is indeed the "combination, and the form,” but not “ the seal,” of the godhead; and he stands before us, as one whom the fire of Phœbus has blasted, rather than enlightened. The sacred beam he could not extinguish, it was bestowed on him to burn for ever, a xтμα εs as, and its birthright was immortality. The ray therefore remains; but like the eye of the basilisk, it shines only to fascinate; it fascinates only to destroy. There are moments indeed, when this emanation of the godhead within him, reasserts her high original, and escaping from the foul enthralments of sensuality, inspires us with the hope, that she will be no longer degraded, nor dethroned. But, the struggle is often short, and always ineffectual; and the attempt has only served to bind the chains it cannot break. Alas, the inexorable genius of Byron has no more respect for his Muse than for his Mistress; he would exalt her only to humiliate; and he permits her to soar above the Earth, but not so high as Heaven.

LINES

ΤΟ

SANDT,

THE

Assassin of Kotzebue.

O Thou, the direst martyr of the time,

To Shadowy Virtue-but substantial Crime--
That wouldst have rush'd before the Eternal Throne,
Reeking with blood of others! and thine own!
Think not beneath that guilt-ennobled name,

That blot, and boast of Rome, to shroud thy shame;
Thou still art wrong, were erring Brutus right,
The Pagan fell in darkness,-Thou in light!
Fix'd thy relentless purpose to fulfill,

Through life or death, shame, glory, good, or ill,
Nurs 'd in the lap of Reason, but to wound

Her breast, and break the laws, her guardian mound,
Did'st hope like him,* who William's life-blood spilt,
To wash out stain by stain, and guilt by guilt?
Religion,-hadst thou own'd her mild control,
With loftier, kindlier views had fill'd thy soul,
Check'd thine officious pride, with calm reproof,
And shew'd thy tempting Angel's cloven hoof.

* Belthazar Gerard, who assassinated William the First, prince of Orange, at Delft. He entertained the design six years before its execution! He said he did it to expiate his sins; that Prince being at the head of the Protestants.

Thy doom,

what created Thing might know,
Though Seraphs wept above and Man below,
Had full success that desperate hand befel,
That knock'd so fiercely at the gates of Hell!

Must general laws to partial dogmas bow?

Could Heaven have patience still, and could'st not Thou?
Think WHO obey'd, though Herod did command,
Had'st thou to cast the stone a purer hand?
Would thy weak Arm th' avenging Sceptre sway?
Vengeance to GOD belongs;-He can repay,
Yea, and forbear;—to self-destruction driv❜n,
Renouncing Earth, for what? to forfeit Heaven!
HE foil'd thy steel ;—repent—and be forgiven.

TO THE MEMORY

OF THE

ABBÉ EDGEWORTH.

O Thou! that at thy king's command,
While cannons roar'd, and clarions bray'd,
Didst on his scaffold calmly stand,

In Panoply by hands not made :

While hosts less fearless though in mail array'd, 'Mid prosp'ring vice, by virtue half' inspir'd, Thy noble bearing view'd, and menac'd, and admir'd;

'Tis not the lot of common clay,

To win the glories of that morn,

And bear a brighter crown away,

Than from thy monarch's brow was torn !
Thou didst a friendship court, in perils born,
Rarely by subjects sought, or kings bestow'd,
A friendship rock'd by storms, baptised in royal blood!

Την απ' ανωθεν πανοπλιαν ; This intrepid soldier of Christ was requested to sto tend the king of France on the scaffold. He cheerfully complied, although it was the universal opinion, that his life would be sacrificed. As the axe doscended, he exclaimed with a loud voice, "Fils de St. Louis, montez au ciel.' Struck and overawed by such magnanimity, displayed at such a moment, the troops, on his descent from the scaffold, presented arms, and made a lane for him to pass through their files unmolested !

F

TO CANOVA.

"Europe, the World has but one Canova!

Had st thou been born when Nature's hand

Was young, She'd copied thee;

But She is old, and trusts to Time
To mar thy victory!