"CHILDE HAROLD'S LAST PILGRIMAGE.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

SO ENDS CHILDE HAROLD HIS LAST PILGRIMAGE!—
Upon the shores of Greece he stood, and cried
'LIBERTY!' and those shores, from age to age
Renown'd, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied
'Liberty!' But a Spectre, at his side,

Stood mocking;—and its dart, uplifting high,
Smote him :-he sank to earth in life's fair pride:
SPARTA! thy rocks then heard another cry,
And old Ilissus sigh’d—‘Die, generous exile, die!'
I will not ask sad Pity to deplore

His wayward errors, who thus early died;
Still less, CHILDE Harold, now thou art no more,
Will I say aught of genius misapplied;
Of the past shadows of thy spleen or pride:-
But I will bid th' Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,
And pray thy spirit may such quiet have,

That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy grave.

SO HAROLD ENDS, IN GREECE, HIS PILGRIMAGE!-
There fitly ending,—in that land renown'd,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,—
He, on the Muses' consecrated ground,
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath!-To bands of mirth,
No more in TEMPE let the pipe resound!
HAROLD, I follow to thy place of birth

The slow hearse-and thy LAST sad PILGRIMAGE on earth

Slow moves the plumed hearse, the mourning train,— I mark the sad procession with a sigh,

Silently passing to that village fane,

Where, HAROLD, thy forefathers mouldering lie; —
There sleeps THAT MOTHER, who, with tearful eye

Pondering the fortunes of thy early road,
Hung o'er the slumbers of thine infancy;

Her Son, released from mortal labour's load,
Now comes to rest, with her, in the same still abode.

Bursting Death's silence—could that mother speak-
(Speak when the earth was heap'd upon his head)—
In thrilling, but with hollow accent weak,

:

;

She thus might give the welcome of the dead :-
'Here rest, my son, with me;-the dream is fled;-
The motley mask and the great stir is o'er:
Welcome to me, and to this silent bed,

Where deep forgetfulness succeeds the roar

Of Life, and fretting passions waste the heart no more.'»

By his Lordship's Will, a copy of which will be found in the Appendix, he bequeathed to his executors, in trust for the benefit of his sister, Mrs Leigh, the monies arising from the sale of all his real estates at Rochdale and elsewhere, together with such part of his other property as was not settled upon Lady Byron and his daughter Ada, to be by Mrs Leigh enjoyed, free from her husband's control, during her life, and, after her decease, to be inherited by her children.

We have now followed to its close a life which, brief as was its span, may be said, perhaps, to have comprised within itself a greater variety of those excitements and interests which spring out of the deep workings of passion and of intellect, than any that the pen of biography has ever before commemorated. As there still remain the among friend some curious gleanings which, though in the abundance of our materials I have not hitherto found a place for them, are too valuable towards the illustration of his character to be lost, I shall here, in selecting them for the reader, avail myself of

of papers

my

the opportunity of trespassing, for the last time, on his patience with a few general remarks.

It must have been observed, throughout these pages, and by some, perhaps, with disappointment, that into the character of Lord Byron, as a poet, there has been little, if any, critical examination; but that content with expressing generally the delight which, in common with all, I derive from his poetry, I have left the task of analysing the sources from which this delight springs to others. In thus evading, if it must be so considered, one of my duties as a biographer, I have been influenced no less by a sense of my own inaptitude for the office of critic, than by recollecting with what assiduity, throughout the whole of the poet's career, every new rising of his genius was watched from the great observatories of Criticism, and the ever changing varieties of its course and splendour tracked out and recorded with a degree of skill and minuteness which has left but little for succeeding observers to discover. It is, moreover, into the character and conduct of Lord Byron, as a man,

'It may be making too light of criticism to say with Gray that, even a bad verse is as good a thing or better than the best observation that ever was made upon it;» but there are surely few tasks that appear more thankless and superfluous than that of following, as Criticism sometimes does, in the rear of victorious genius (like the commentators on a field of Blenheim or of Waterloo), and either labouring to point out to us why it has triumphed, or still more unprofitably contending that it ought to have failed. The well known passage of La Bruyère, which even Voltaire's adulatory application of it to some work of the King of Prussia has not spoiled for use, puts perhaps in its true point of view the very subordinate rank which Criticism must he content to occupy in the train of successful Genius:- Quand une lecture vous élève l'esprit et qu'elle vous inspire des sentimens nobles, ne cherchez pas une autre règle pour juger de l'ouvrage; il est bon et fait de main de l'ouvrier: La Critique, après ça, peut s'exercer sur les petites choses, relever quelques expressions, corriger des phrases, parler de syntaxe,» etc. etc.

not distinct from, but forming, on the contrary, the best illustration of his character, as a writer, that it has been the more immediate purpose of these volumes to inquire; and if, in the course of them, any satisfactory clue has been afforded to those anomalies, moral and intellectual, which his life exhibited,-still more, should it have been the effect of my humble labours to clear away some of those mists that hung round my friend, and show him, in most respects, as worthy of love as he was, in all, of admiration, then will the chief and sole aim of this work have been accomplished.

Having devoted to this object so large a portion of my own share of these pages, and, yet more fairly, enabled the world to form a judgment for itself, by placing the man, in his own person, and without disguise, before all eyes, there would seem to remain now but an easy duty in summing up the various points of his character, and, out of the features, already separately described, combining one complete portrait. The task, however, is by no means so easy as it may appear. There are few characters in which a near acquaintance does not enable us to discover some one leading principle or passion, consistent enough in its operations to be taken confidently into account in any estimate of the disposition in which they are found. Like those points in the human face, or figure, to which all its other proportions are referrible, there is in most minds some one governing influence, from which chiefly,-though, of course, biassed on some occasions by others, -all its various impulses and tendencies will be found to radiate. In Lord Byron, however, this sort of pivot of character was almost wholly wanting. Governed as he was at different moments by totally different passions, and impelled sometimes, as during his short access of parsimony in

Italy, by springs of action never before developed in his nature, in him this simple mode of tracing character to its sources must be often wholly at fault; and if, as is not impossible, in trying to solve the strange variances of his mind, I should myself be found to have fallen into contradictions and inconsistencies, the extreme difficulty of analysing, without dazzle or bewilderment, such an unexampled complication of qualities, must be admitted

as my excuse.

So various, indeed, and contradictory were his attributes, both moral and intellectual, that he may be pronounced to have been not one, but many; nor would it be any great exaggeration of the truth to say, that out of the mere partition of the properties of his single mind a plurality of characters, all different and all vigorous, might have been furnished. It was this multiform aspect exhibited by him that led the world, during his short wondrous career, to compare him with that medley host of personages, almost all differing from each other, which he thus playfully enumerates in one of his Journals:

<< I have been thinking over, the other day, on the various comparisons, good or evil, which I have seen published of myself in different journals, English and foreign. This was suggested to me by accidentally turning over a foreign one lately, for I have made it a rule latterly never to search for any thing of the kind, but not to avoid the perusal, if presented by chance.

«To begin, then: I have seen myself compared personally or poetically, in English, French, German (as interpreted to me), Italian, and Portuguese, within these nine years, to Rousseau, Goëthe, Young, Aretine, Timon of Athens, Dante, Petrarch, an alabaster vase, lighted up within,' Satan, Shakspeare, Buonaparte, Tiberius,