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6.-Page 334, line 24.

'Tis of thee that I think, not of them.

[Originally thus:

"There is many a pang to pursue me,

And many a peril to stem;

They may torture, but shall not subdue me;
They may crush, but they shall not contemn."]

7.-Page 335, line 4.

Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
[MS.-"Though watchful, 'twas but to reclaim me,
Nor, silent, to sanction a lie."]

8.-Page 335, line 21.

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.

[These stanzas-" than which," says the Quarterly Review, for January, 1831, "there is nothing perhaps more mournfully and desolately beautiful in the whole range of Lord Byron's poetry," were also written at Diodati, and sent home to be published if Mrs. Leigh should consent. She decided the other way, and the epistle was not printed till 1830.]

9.-Page 336, line 7.

Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,

[Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of " Foulweather Jack."

"But, though it were tempest-toss'd,
Still his bark could not be lost."

He returned safely from the wreck of the "Wager" (in Anson's voyage), and many years after circumnavigated the world, as commander of a similar expedition.]

10.-Page 338, line 1.

I did remind thee of our own dear Luke,

[The Lake of Newstead Abbey, which he has described minutely in the thirteenth canto of " Don Juan."]

11.-Page 341, line 22.

I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

["Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, that he was not the first to make his domestic differences a topic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himself, ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one was or could be known, held up everywhere, and by every art of malice, as the most infamous of men,-because he had parted from his wife. He was exquisitely sensitive: he was wounded at

once by a thousand arrows; and all this with the most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all who were assailing him not one knew anything of the real merits of the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and tirades? No, certainly: it would have been nobler, better, wiser far, to have utterly scorned the assaults of such enemies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, because this young, hotblooded, proud, patrician poet did not, amidst the exacerbation of feelings which he could not control, act in precisely the most dignified and wisest of all possible manners of action,-are we entitled, is the world at large entitled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative condemnation? Do we know all that he had suffered?-have we imagination enough to comprehend what he suffered under circumstances such as these?-have we been tried in similar circumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinchingly, and keep the weapon quiescent in the hand that trembled with all the excitements of insulted privacy, honour, and faith.

"Let people consider for a moment what it is that they demand when they insist upon a poet of Byron's class abstaining altogether from expressing in his works anything of his own feelings in regard to anything that immediately concerns his own history. We tell him, in every possible form and shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own personal feelings. We encourage him in every possible way to dissect his own heart for our entertainment-we tempt him by every bribe most likely to act powerfully on a young and imaginative man, to plunge into the darkest depths of self-knowledge; to madden his brain with eternal self-scrutinies, to find his pride and his pleasure in what others shrink from as torture-we tempt him to indulge in these dangerous exercises, until they obviously acquire the power of leading him to the very brink of frenzy-we tempt him to find, and to see in this perilous vocation, the staple of his existence, the food of his ambition, the very essence of his glory, and the moment that, by habits of our own creating, at least of our own encouraging and confirming, he is carried one single step beyond what we happen to approve of, we turn round with all the bitterness of spleen, and reproach him with the unmanliness of entertaining the public with his feelings in regard to his separation from his wife. This was truly the conduct of a fair and liberal public! To our view of the matter, Lord Byron, treated as he had been, tempted as he had been, and tortured and insulted as he was at the moment, did no more forfeit his character by writing what he did write upon that unhappy occasion, than another man, under circumstances of the same nature, would have done, by telling something of his mind about it to an intimate friend across the fire. The public had forced him into the habits of familiarity, and they received his confidence with nothing but anger and scorn.' LOCKHART.

MONODY ON THE DEATH

OF

THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

MONODY ON THE DEATHI

OP

THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN,'

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord, and a bright regret,

A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection, a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When Summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed-a Power

Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour

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