Puslapio vaizdai

simplicity, and quiet deep sincerity, was awanting | hind it; nor did he move with equal and measured in Byron's character. And this greatly accounts steps in its procession. He stood to the age in a for the wreck' which he became ; and for that most awkward and uncertain attitude. He sneered misery--a misery which was wonderful, passing at its advancement, and he lent money, and ultithe woe of man-which sat down upon his spirit. mately lost his life, in attempting to promote it. Many accounts have been given of his grief. He spoke with uniform contempt, and imitated Macaulay says that he was a spoiled child. with as uniform emulation, the masterpieces of Another in verse declares

its literature. He abused Wordsworth in public, The thought that he was greater than his kind

and in private "rolled him as a sweet morsel unHad struck, methought, his eagle spirit blind der his tongue;" or rather, if you believe himself, By gazing at its own exceeding light.”

took him as a drastic dose, to purify his bilious But the plain prose and English of it lies in his and unhappy nature, by the strongest contrasted union of intensity of power with the want of in- element that he could find. He often reviled and tensity of purpose. He was neither one thing, ridiculed revealed religion, and yet read the Bible nor yet another. Life with him was neither, on more faithfully and statedly than most professed the one hand, an earnest single-eyed effort, nor Christians—made up in superstition what he was it, could it be, a mere display. He be- wanted in faith—had a devout horror at beginlieved, and trembled as he believed, that it was a ning his poems, undertaking his journeys, or parserious thing to die; but did not sufficiently, if at ing his nails on a Friday—and had he lived, all feel, that it was as serious a thing to live. He would probably have ended, like his own Giaour, would not struggle : he must shine ; but could as “ Brother Byron," with hair shirt, and ironnot be content with mere shining without struggle. spiked girdle, in some Achaian or Armenian conAnd hence ill at ease with himself, aimless and vent. He habitually trampled on, and seems hopeless, "like the Cyclops--mad with blind sometimes to have really despised, the opinion of ness," he turned to bay against society-man- the public; and yet, in some points, felt it so and the Maker. And hence, amid all that he keenly, that, says Ebenežer Elliot,“ he would has said to the world—and said so eloquently, and have almost gone into hysterics had a tailor said so mournfully, and said amid such wide, and laughed at him.” And although, when the silent, and profound attention-he has told it little Edinburgh Review sought to crush him like a save his own sad story.

worm, he rose from the heel, a fiery, flying I pass, secondly, to speak of the relation in dragon; yet, to the assaults of the meaner creawhich he stood to his age. The relations in tures of the press, he was pervious all over, and which a man stands to his ago are perhaps allowed minnikin arrows, which were beneath his threefold. He is either before it or behind it, laughter, to rouse his rage. Absurd and ludicrous or exactly on à level with it. He is either its the spectacle that of this Laocoon, covered from forerunner; or he is dragged as à captive at its head to foot with the snakes of supernal venchariot wheels; or he walks calmly, and step for geance, bearing their burden with deep agonized step, along with it. We behold in Milton the silence, starting and shrieking upon the applicaman before his age—not, indeed, in point of tion of a thorn, which the hand of some puny moral grandeur or mental power; for remember, passing malignant had thrust into his foot. In his age was the age of the Puritans, the age of one respect we grant that Byron was the spirit of Hampden, Selden, Howe, Vane, and of Crom- the age ; he was the representative of its wants, well

, who was a greater writer than Milton him- its weakness, its discontents, its dark unrest, self-only, it was with the sword that he wrote- but not of its aspirations, its widening charity, and whose deeds were quite commensurate with and its hopeful tendencies. His voice was the Milton's words. But in point of liberality of senti- deep vague moan of the world's dream—his writhment and width of view, the Poet strode across ing anguish, the last struggle of its troubled entire centuries, and went, indeed, so far before slumber : it has since awaked, or is awakening, his contemporaries that he seemed, to many of and, was a dream when one awakeneth,” it is dethem, to dwindle in the distance. We see in spising, too much despising, his image. He Southey the man behind his age, who, indeed, in was a beaten man, standing high yet helpless behis youth, took a rash and rapid race in advance, tween the Old and the New, and all thé but returned like a beaten dog, cowed, abashed, helpless and the hopeless, rallied round him, to with downcast head, and tail between his legs, proclaim him the one-eyed monarch of the blind; and remained, for the rest of his life, aloof from say rather to constitute him first magistrate over the great movements of society. We behold in a city in flames-supreme ruler in a blasted and Brougham one whom once the age was proud to ruined realm. In one thing he was certainly a claim as its child and champion, the express prophet; namely, a prophet of evil. As misery image of its bustling, restless, versatile, and on- was the secret sting of all his inspiration, it beward character, and of whom we still at least say, came the invariable matter of all his song. In with a sigh, he might have been the Man of his some of his poems, you have Misery contemplattime. In which of these relations, is it asked, ing ; in others, Misery weeping aloud ; in others, did Byron stand to his age? We are forced to Misery revolving and reproducing the past; in answer, in none of them. He was not before his others, Misery bursting the confines of the world, age in anything, in opinion, or in feeling. He as if in search of a wider liell than that in which was not, in all or many things, disgracefully be it felt itself environed : in others, Misery stopping

to turn and rend its real or imaginary foes; and personal passion, seem the main elements of in others, Misery breaking out into hollow, hope. Byron's poetical power. He sees clearly, he less, and heartless laughter. (What a terrible selects judiciously for effect from among the thing is the laugh of the unhappy! It is the points he does see, and he paints them with a very echo to the seat where sorrow is throned.") pencil dipped in his own fiery heart. He was the But in all, you have Misery ; and whether he re- last representative of the English character of turns the old thunder in a voice of hundred mind. His lordly independence and high-spiritedpower and majesty, or sings an evening song with ness ; his fearless avowal of his prejudices however the grasshopper at his feet-smiles the sinile of narrow, and passions however coarse ; his conbitterness, or sheds the burning tears of anger- stant clearness and decision of tone and of style ; his voice still speaks of desolation, mourning, and his manly vigour and directness; his strong unwoe; the vocabulary of grief labours under the reasoning instinctive sense ; his abhorrence of demands of his melancholy genius; and never, mysticism; and his frequent caprices—all savoured never more, till this scene of tears and sighs be of that literature which had reared Dryden, Pope, ended, shall we meet with a more authentic and and Johnson ; and every peculiarity of the Eng. profound expounder of the wretchedness of man. lish school seems to have clustered in and around And as such we deem him to have done good him, as its last splendid specimen. Since then our service; first, because he who approaches toward higher literature is rapidly charging with the the bottom of human woe, proves that it is not al- German element. Byron was ultimus Ronnanotogether bottomless, however deep; because, if rum—the last, and, with the exceptions of Shakhuman grief spring from human greatness, in un- speare and Milton, the greatest purely English veiling the grief he is illustrating the grandeur of poet. His manner had generally all the clearness man; and, because, the writings of Byron have and precision of sculpture ; indeed his clearness saved us, in this country, what in France has serves often to disguise his depth. As obscurity been so pernicious, “the literature of des- sometimes gives an air of mystic profundity and peration :” they are a literature of desperation solemn grandeur to a shallow puddle, so, on the in themselves ; they condense, into one volume, other hand, we have seen pools among the mounwhat in France has been diluted throughout many, tains, whose pellucidity made them appear less and, consequently, our country has drained off at profound, and where every small shining pebble one gulp, and survived the experiment, the was a bright liar as to the real depth of the poison which our neighbours have been sipping waters, such pools are many of the poems of for years to their deadly harm.

Byron, and, we may add, of Campbell. Thus, on the whole, we regard Byron neither His dominion over the darker passions is one as, in any sense, a creator, nor, wholly, as a of the most obvious features in his poetic charater. creature of his period ; but rather, as a stranger Ho rode in a chariot drawn, if we may use the entangled in the passing stream of its crowd, im- figure, by those horses described in the visions of perfectly adjusted to its customs, indifferently the Apocalypse, “whose heads were as the heads reconciled to its laws--among men, but not of of lions, and out of their mouths issued fire, and them—a man of the world, but not a man of the smoke, and brimstone.” And supreme is his age ; and who has rather fallen furiously through management of these dreadful coursers.

Whatit—"a wild diver” spurning the heights, and ever is fiercest and gloomiest in human natureseeking the depths—than left on it any deep or whatever furnace-bosoms have been heated seren definite impression. Some men are buried and times hotter by the unrestrained passions and the straightway forgotten-shovelled out of memory torrid suns of the east and the south-wherever as soon as shovelled into the tomb. Others are

man verges toward the animal or the fiendburied, and from their graves, through the hands wherever misanthropes have folded their arms, of ministering love, arise fragrant flowers and and taken their desperate attitude — wherever verdant branches, and thus are they, in a stands “the bed of sin delirious with its dread" subordinate sense, “raised in glory.” Others, wherever devours “ the worm that cannot sleep, again, lie down in the dust, and though no blos- and never dies”—there the melancholy muse of som or bough marks the spot, and though the Byron finds a haunt. Driven from a home in his timid shun it at evening-tides, as a spot unbless-country, he finds it in the mansions of all unhappy ed—yet, forgotten it can never be, for there lies hearts, which open gloomily, and admit him as the record of a great guilty life extinct, and the their tenant and their bard. To escape from crown of crime sits silent and shadowy on the one’s-self is the desire of many, of all the misertombstone. This is Byron's memorial in the age. able—the desire of the drunkard, of the opiumBut, as even on Nero's tomb “ some hand unseen eater, of those who plunge into the vortex of any strewed flowers,” and as “nothing dies but some- dissipation, who indulge in any delicious dreamthing mourns,” let us lay a frail garland upon but it is the singularity of Byron that he unithe sepulchre of a ruin—itself a desolation—and formly escapes from himself into something worse say Requiescat in pace, as we hurry on.

and more miserable. His being transmigrates I come, thirdly, to speak of the leading features into a darker and more demoniac shape ; he beof his artistic execution, and the materials which comes an epicure even in wretchedness; he has his genius used. And here there are less mingled supped full of common miseries, and must create feelings to embarrass the critical contemplator. and exhaust imaginary horrors. What infinite Strong, direct intellect, descriptive force, and I pity that a being so gifted, and that might have been so noble, should find it necessary perpetually

“ Hours of Idleness” was, in one respect, the hapto evade himself! Hence his writings abound, piest hit he ever made : it was fortunate enough more than those of other authors, with lines and to attract abuse from the highest critical autho. phrases which seem to concentrate all misery rity in the empire, and thereby stirred his pride, within them—with texts for misanthropes, and and effectually roused his faculties. It required mottos for the mouths of suicides. “ Years all a scorching heat to hatch a Byron! In his “ Eng. winters"-what a gasp is that, and how charac- lish Bards” he proved himself rather a pugilist teristic of him to whose soul summer had not than a poet. It is the work of a man of Belial, come, and spring had for ever faded! The charge “flown with insolence and wine.” His popular of affectation has often been brought against productions were principally written when he was Byron's proclamations of personal woe. But no still a favourite son of society, the idol of drawingone, we believe, was ever a constant and consistent rooms, and the admired, as well as observed, of hypocrite in such a matter as misery; and we all observers. “ Childe Harold” is a transcripthink we can argue his sincerity, not merely from tion of the serious and publishable part of his his personal declarations, but from this fact, that journal, as he travelled in Greece, Spain, and all the characters into whom he shoots his soul Italy. “ The Giaour” is a powerful half-length are unhappy. Tasso writhing in the dungeon, picture of himself. “ The Bride of Abydos” is a Dante prophecying evil, not to speak of his ima- tender and somewhat maudlin memory of Greece. ginary heroes, such as Conrad, Alp, the Giaour,“ The Corsair” was the work of one fierce fortand Childe Harold, betray in what direction ran night, and seems to have brought one period of the master current of his soul; and as the bells his life, as well as of his popularity, to a glitterand bubbles upon the dark pool form an accurate ing point. In all this class of his poems we see measurement of its depth, so his mirth, in its him rather revolving the memory of past, than wildness, recklessness, and utter want of genuine encountering the reality of present, misery. You gaiety, tells saddest tales about the state of a have pensive sentiment rather than quick and heart which neither on earth nor heaven could fresh anguish. But his war with society was find aught to cheer or comfort it.

now about to begin in right earnest ; and in proBesides those intensely English qualities which phetic anticipation of this, he wrote his “ Pariwe have enumerated as Byron's, there sprung out sina" and his “ Siege of Corinth.” These were from him, and mainly through the spur of woe, a the first great drops of the thunderstorm he was higher power than appeared originally to belong soon to pour down upon the world ; and in the to his nature. After all his faculties seemed second of these, particularly, there is an electric fully developed, and after critics and craniologists heat and a frenzied haste which proclaims a had formed their unalterable estimate of them, troubled and distracted state of mind. In referhe began, as if miraculously, to grow into a loftier ring his medical advisers to it as a proof of his shape and stature, and compelled these same mental sanity, he rather blundered ; for although sapient judges, slowly and reluctantly, to amend it wants the incoherence, it has the fury, of madtheir conclusions. In his “ Cain," his “ Heaven It is the most rapid and furious race he and Earth,” and his “Vision of Judgment,” he ever ran to escape from his own shadow. Then exhibited the highest form of the faculty divine- came his open breach with English society, his the true afflatus of the Bard. He seemed to rise separation from his lady, and his growling retreat consciously into his own region; and, certainly, to his Italian den. But ere yet he plunged into for gloomy grandeur, and deep, desolate beauty, that pool, where the degradation of his genius, these productions surpass all the writings of the and where its power were perfect, he must turn period. Now, for the first time, men saw the round, and close in wilder, loftier measures the Pandemonian palace of his soul fully lit, and they sad song of “Childe Harold,” which in life's trembled at its ghastly splendour ; and yet, curi- summer he had begun; and strange it was to ous it is to remark that those were precisely the mark, in those two last cantos, not only their poems which the public at first received most deepened power and earnestness, but their multicoldly; and those who shouted applause when he plied sorrow. He seemed to have gone away to issued the two first elegant, but comparatively Addison's “Mountain of Miseries,” and exchanged shallow, cantos of “Childe Harold,” which were one burden for a worse-sorrow for despair. He the reflection of other minds, shrank from him had fallen so low, that suicide had lost its charms; when he displayed the terrible riches of his own. and when one falls beneath the suicide point, his

We can only mention the materials on which misery is perfect ; for his quarrel then is not with Byron's genius fed—and, indeed, we must substi- life but with being. Yet how horribly beautiful tute the singular term—for his material was not his conversation with the dust of empires—with manifold, but one : it was the history of his own the gigantic skeleton of Rome—with the ocean, heart that his genius reproduced in all his poems. which meets him like that simulacrum of the sea His poetry was the mirror of himself.

which haunted the madness of Caligula—with all In considering, fourthly, the more characteristic the mighty miserable in the past—with those of his works, we may divide them into his juvenile spirits which he summons from the “vasty deep” productions, his popular, and his proscribed works. -or with those ill-favoured ones His juvenile productions testified to nothing but

" Who walk the shadow of the Vale of Death." the power of his passions, the strength of his ambition, and the uncertainty of his aims. His Ile speaks to them as their equal and kindred


spirit. “ Hell from beneath is moved to meet life-long struggle, and one which, like men who him at his coming : they speak, and say unto fight their battles o'er again in sleep, he renewed him, Art thou become like unto us?” As an- again and again in every dream of his imaginaother potentate, do those“ Anarchs old”-Orcus, tion. Hades, and the “ dreaded name of Demogorgon" "The Vision of Judgment," unquestionably the ---admit him into their chaotick company, and best abused, is also one of the best, and by no make him free of the privileges of their dreary means the most profane, of his productions. It realm.

sprung from the savage disgust produced in his Having thus taken a last proud farewell of $o- mind by Southey's “ double distilled” cant, in ciety, with all its forms and conventionalities, he that poem of his on the death of George the turned him to the task of pouring out his en- Third—which reversing the usual case, now lives venomed and disappointed spirit in works which suspended by a tow-line from its caricature. All society was as certain to proscribe as it was to other hatred—that of Johnson—that of Burke peruse; and there followed that marvellous series that of Juvenal—that of all, save Junius—is tame of poems to which we have already referred as and maudlin compared to the wrath of Byron his most peculiar and powerful productions—most expressed in this poem, Scorn often has the powerful, because most sincere, And yet the effect of cooling and carrying off rage—but here public proved how false and worthless its former “the ground burns frore and cold performs the estimate of Byron's genius had been, by denounc-effect of fire." His very contempt is molten ; his ing those, his best doings, not merely for their tears of laughter, as well as of misery, fall in wickedness, but for their artistic execution. It burning showers. In what single lines has he is humiliating to revert to the reviews and news- concentrated the mingled essence of the coolest papers of that period, and to read the language contempt, and the hottest indignation ! in which they speak of “ Cain,” “Sardanapalus," « A better farmer ne'er brushed dew from lawn. and the “ Vision of Judgment," uniformly treat- A worse king never left a realm undone.' ing them as miserable fallings-off from his former

“When the gorgeous coffin was laid low, self-beneath even the standard of his “ English It seemed the mockery of hell to fold Bards and Scotch Reviewers."

“ Cain” we re

The rottenness of eighty years in gold.” gard not only as Byron's noblest production, but

"Passion ! replied the phantom dim, as one of the finest poems in this or any language.

'I loved my country and I hated him.'' It is such a work as Milton, had he been miser- There spoke the authentic shade of Junius, or able, would have written. There is nothing in at least, a spirit worthy of contending with him “Paradise Lost” superior to Caiu's flight with for the honour of being the “Best Hater" upon Lucifer through the stars, and nothing in Shak- record. speare superior to his conversations with his wife

And yet, mixed with the strokes of ribaldry, Adah. We speak simply of its merits as a work are touches of a grandeur which he has rarely, of art—its object is worthy of all condemnation: elsewhere, approached. His poetry always rises that is, to paint a more soured and savage Man- above itself, when painting the faded splendour fred, engaged in a controversy, not merely with wan—the stedfast gloom—the hapless magnanihimself, but with the system of which he is one mity of the Prince of Darkness. With perfect dipoased and desperate member ; in the unequal ease he seems to enter into the soul, and fill up strife overwhelmed, and, as if the crush of Omni- the measure and stature of the awful personage. potence were not enough, bringing down after It were unpardonable, even in a rapid review, him, in his fall, the weight of a brother's blood; to omit all notice of “Don Juan,” which, if it and the object of the fable is not, as it ought to bring our notion of the man to its lowest pointhave been, to show the madness of all selfish exalts our idea of the Poet. Its great charm is struggle against the laws of the universe, but to its conversational ease. How coolly, and calmly, more than intimate the poet's belief, that the laws he bestrides his Pegasus even when he is at the which occasion such a struggle are cruel and un- gallop. With what exquisitely quiet and quick just. There is an unfair distribution of misery transitions does he pass from humour to pathos, and guilt in the story. The misery principally and make you laugh and cry at once as you do aecrues to Cain ; but a large proportion of the in dreams. It is less a man writing, than a man guilt is caught, as by a whirlwind, and flies up in resigning his soul to his reader. To use Scott's the face of his Maker. The great crime of the beautiful figure-_" the stanzas fall off as easily poem is not that its hero utters blasphemies, but as the leaves from the autumnal tree ; you stand that you shut it with a doubt whether these blas- under a shower of withered gold.” And in spite phemies be not true. Milton wrote his great poem of the endless touches of wit, the general imto “justify the ways of God to man ;” Byron's pression is most melancholy; and not Rasselas, nor object seems to be, to justify the ways of man to Timon, casts so deep a shadow on the thoughtful God-even his wildest and most desperate doings. reader as the “very tragical mirth" of Don Juan. The pleading is eloquent, but hopeless. It is the In settling, lastly, his rank as a Poet, we may bubble on the ridge of the cataract praying not simply say, that he must stand, on the whole

, to be carried over and hurried on. Equally vain beneath and apart from the first class of poets, it is to struggle against those austere and awful such as Homer, Dante, Milton, Shakspeare, and laws, by which moments of sin expand into cen- Goethe. Often, indeed, he seems to rush into turies of punishment. Yet this was Byron's own their company, and to stand among them, like a

daring boy amid his seniors, measuring himself | ing day. It was the grandest moment in our proudly with their superior stature. And, pos-lives. We had stood upon many hills-in sunsibly, had he lived, he might have ultimately taken shine and in shade, in mist and in thunder—but his place amongst them, for it lay in him to have never had before, nor hope to have again, such a done this. But life was denied him. The wild feeling of the grandeur of this lower universesteed of his passions like his own “Mazeppa"- such a sense of horrible sublimity. Nay, we carried him furiously into the wilderness, and question if there be a mountain in the empire, dashed him down into premature death. And he which, though seen in similar circumstances, could now must take his place as one at the very head awaken the same emotions in our minds. It is of the second rank of poets, and arrested when he not its loftiness, though that be great—nor its was towering up toward the first.

bold outline, nor its savage loneliness, nor its mistHis name has been frequently but injudiciously loving precipices, but the associations which coupled with that of Shelley. This has arisen crown its crags with a “peculiar diadem”-its principally from their accidental position, They identification with the image of a poet, who, amid found themselves together one stormy night in all his fearful errors, had perhaps more than any the streets, having both been thrust out by the of the age's Bards, the power of investing all his strong arm from their homes. One had been career-yea, to every corner which his fierce foot kicking up a row and kissing the serving-maids ; ever touched, or whi his genius ever sung-with the other had been trying to reform the family, profound and melancholy interest. We saw the but in so awkward a fashion, that in his haste he name Byron written in the cloud-characters had put out all the lustres, and nearly blown up above us. We saw his genius sadly smiling in the establishment. In that cold, desolate, moon- those gleams of stray sunshine which gilded the less night, they chanced to meet-they entered darkness they could not dispel. We found an into conversation-they even tried, by drawing einblem of his poetry in that flying rack, and of near each other, to administer a little kindly his character in those lowering precipices. We warmth and encouragement. Men seeing them seemed to hear the wail of his restless spirit in the imperfectly in the lamp-light, classed them together wild sob of the wind, fainting and struggling up as two dissolute and disorderly blackguards. And, under its burden of darkness. Nay, we could alas, when the morning came that might have ac- fancy that this hill was designed as an eternal curately discriminated them, both were found monument to his name, and to image all those lying dead in the streets. In point of purpose- peculiarities which make that name for ever illustemperament--tendency of intellect--poetical trious. Not the loftiest of his country's poets, he creed-feelings-sentiments-habits-and cha- is the most sharply and terribly defined. In magracter, no two men could be more dissimilar. And nitude and round completeness, he yields to many, the conjunction of their names is almost as incon- in jagged, abrupt, and passionate projection of his gruous, as though we should, in comparison, not own shadow, over the world of literature, to none. in contrast, speak of Douglas Jerrold and Bap-The genius of convulsion, a dire attraction, dwells tist Noel-Father Matthew and Professor Wilson around him, which leads many to hang over, and

- Thomas Carlyle and Andrew Marshall of Kirk- some to leap down his precipices. Volcanic as intilloch-Dr. Brunton and Dr. John Ritchie. he is, the coldness of wintry selfishness too often

Weremember a pilgrimage we made some years collects in the hollows of his verse. He loves to ago to Lochnagar. As we ascended, a mist came the cloud and the thick darkness, and comes “veil. down over the hill, like a veil dropped by some ing all the lightnings of his song in sorrow.” So, jealous beauty over her own fair face. At length like Byron beside Scott and Wordsworth, oes the summit was reached, though the prospect was Lochnagar stand in the presence of his neighbour denied us. It was a proud and thrilling moment. giants, Ben-mac-Dhui, and Ben-y-boord, less What though darkness was all around ? It lofty, but more fiercely eloquent in its jagged outwas the very atmosphere that suited the scene. line, reminding us of the via of the forked lightIt was “ dark Lochnagar." And only

think ning, which it seems dumbly to mimic, projecting how fine it was to climb up and clasp its cairn- its cliffs like quenched batteries against earth and to lift a stone from it, to be in after-time a memo- heaven, with the cold of snow in its heart, and rial of our journey—to sing the song which made with a coronet of mist round its gloomy brow.. it terrible and dear, in its own proud drawing- No poet, since Homer and Ida, has thus, everroom, with those great fog-curtains floating around lastingly, shot his genius into the heart of one great to pass along the brink of it's precipices—to mountain, identifying himself and his song with snatch a fearful joy, as we leant over, and hung it. Not Horace with Soracte-not Wordsworth down, and saw from beneath the gleam of eternal with Helvellyn-not Coleridge with Mont Blanc snow shining up from its hollows, and columns, -not Wilson with the Black Mount-not even or rather perpendicular seas of mist, streaming up Scott with the Eildons_all these are still common upon the wind

property, but Lochnagar is Byron's own—no poet

will ever venture to sing it again. In its dread “ Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, circle none durst walk but he. His allusions to it Where every wave breaks on a living shore, Heaped with the damned, like pebbles—"

are not numerous, but its peaks stood often before

his eye : a recollection of its grandeur served more tinged, too, here and there, on their tops, by to colour his line, than the glaciers of the Alps, gleams of sunshine, the farewell beams of the dy- the cliffs of Jura, or the thunder hills of fear, which

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