The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told-
The loves, the feuds, thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings-we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,

And enmities, like sun-touched snow, resigned-
Of fealty, cherished without change or chill,

In those who served him young, and serve him still-
Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart-
Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud,
Turn forth their silver lining' on the crowd,
This gifted being wraps himself in night,
And, keeping all that softens and adorns.

And gilds his social nature hid from sight,

Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.'

The friendship which subsisted between Mr. Moore and Lord Byron was equally honorable to each. No two things could well be inore dissimilar than the courses which each of them had selected to run in their poetical careers, and yet, as far as they were both candidates (and successful ones) for public approbation, they may be fairly said to have been rivals. They even, as we have before noticed, selected the same subject for the exercise of their talents; but not only was there no similarity in the manner of the execution, but the testimony which, in the publication of that poem, Mr. Moore bore to the genius of his brother-bard was highly commendable. It happens but too frequently in the annals of literature that the very circumstances which ought to attach men of letters to each other-for example, a similarity of pursuits, and feelings kindled from the same etherial fire-have the effect of raising barriers between them, and they never speak of each other but to carp at that fame to which they consider themselves to be solely entitled, and which to share with a rival is worse than not to possess at all. They can in common bear no rival near their thrones.' Mr. Moore is an honorable exception to this almost universal rule, and by his conduct to Lord Byron during his life, still more by the alinost fastidious respect which he has paid to his memory, has shown that he deserved the friendship of such a man, and that the exaltation of his mind is not wholly confined to his literary efforts.

The death of Lord Byron has, however, reconciled all opinions. Envy is dead, and that spirit of criticism which induced some persons to cavil at what they had neither hearts to feel nor heads to understand is at rest for ever. The bitterness of the grief which Lord Byron's decease occasioned has also lost much of its force, and it is now regarded only as a loss deep and irreparable, but one which must be endured. In the mean time his fame has soared to the highest point, and, in all the range of English poetry, there are few who claim a more brilliant place. In the memory of all who knew him he will live while they exist; and, when all who breathed the same air with him shall have gone to join him in the world which he now inhabits, his works will hold the same station as they now occupy in the minds of all men while the literature of England shall continue. This shall be really to live, and in this fame is the real triumph over the grave.

He is not dead, he doth not sleep

He hath awakened from the dream of life:
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. We decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us, and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

THE END.

F