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Harry:

Sir John:

Harry:

As for the Rich, Sur John, I conno' tell;
But for the Poor, I'll onser for mysel;

If Fire shid come, I ha' nout for it to brun,

Nor wark to find for oather Swooard or Gun :
For France and Rome my feering is no greater,
They lyen, I think, o' th' tother Side o' th' Weater.
You don't consider what may be the End
Of such a strange Indifference, my Friend;
Pray, whether you have more or less to lose,
Wou'd you not guard your Country from its Foes ?
My Country, Sur? I have, yo' understand,

In aw the Country not one Inch o' Lond;

They that wood'n feight, and ha' Mon's Blood be spilt,
May if they win, but whoy mun I be kilt?

Judging from this and other pieces of a similar character, as well as from frequent passages in his "Remains," one may assume that, had Byron lived in these later days he would have been found labouring amongst the philanthropists, and the social and educational reformers; and that every scheme which had for its object the uplifting of the masses, and the improving of the conditions of life in this country, would have found in him an energetic supporter, ready alike with pen and purse.

Scattered throughout these volumes are evidences of ripe scholarship, and of an enthusiastic love of letters, ancient and modern, and one cannot avoid the conclusion that the multiplicity of interests, which later civilization has brought to us, has had the effect of diverting the attention of even the highly educated amongst us, from the consideration of those abstruse subjects, to which the cultured gentlemen of past generations were accustomed to devote, to their infinite pleasure and profit, so large a portion of their leisure.

Byrom's personality may be said to have been, like his poetical works, in two volumes, for, if we were to

form our opinion as to the manner of man he was from a study of Volume I. of his poems, we might be led to the conclusion that he was a fine scholar with a decidedly volatile temperament: a clubable man and something of a wit: one who, to say the least, did not take life so seriously as to disregard the pleasures, intellectual and other, that fortune brought in his way, a man of the world in fact. And, so far as it goes, that estimate would be correct; but he had another and a more serious side to his character, for he was, notwithstanding all his seeming flippancy, a deeply religious man and something of a mystic, reminding one forcibly, both in his spiritual attitude, and in his mode of expressing that attitude, of Keble or of Christina Rossetti. Indeed, one might almost imagine that, from the poetical works of Byrom the idea was caught by Miss Rossetti for her "Feasts and Fasts,” and by Keble for his "Christian Year." It would not be difficult from the contents of Volume II. to select pieces which would make up a fairly good nucleus for a Byrom's "Christian Year": for, ready to hand, are poems on "The Collect for Advent Sunday"; hymns for Christmas Day, amongst them the world-renowned "Christians awake, Salute the Happy Morn❞—which will assuredly keep its author's memory green until the last trumpet shall sound: "On the Epiphany": "Meditations for every day in Passion Week," the first verse of which runs :

Behold the tender Love of God!-behold

The Shepherd dying to redeem his Fold!
Who can declare it ?-Worthy to be known-

What Tongue can speak it worthily ?-His own :
From his own sacred Lips the Theme began,

The glorious Gospel of God's Love to Man.

On the "Easter Collect," "Easter Day," "An Hymn for Easter Day": "On Whit-Sunday,” and “On Trinity Sunday."

Quotations of merit might be made from many of these, and also from other poems upon sacred subjects contained in Volume II.: as "A Divine Pastoral," and "A Paraphrase on the Lord's Prayer." Space, however, will only permit us to give one of the beautiful hymns, it is called "The Desponding Soul's Wish," and is composed upon a somewhat peculiar model-the last line of each verse becoming the first line of the next, a syncopated method which imparts a wholeness to the poem not always to be found when the sentiment of the verses is quite

detached:

My Spirit longeth for Thee,
Within my troubled Breast;

Altho' I be unworthy

Of so divine a Guest.

Of so divine a Guest,
Unworthy tho' I be;

Yet has my Heart no Rest,
Unless it come from Thee.

Unless it come from Thee,

In vain I look around;

In all that I can see

No Rest is to be found.

No Rest is to be found,

But in Thy blessed Love;

O! let my Wish be crown'd,
And send it from above.

In estimating the merit of the two sections, the one on secular and the other on sacred subjects, into which Byrom's poems so easily divide themselves, one might question whether his ultimate position as a poet will not rest upon his productions in the latter, rather than upon those in the former class. In the one he gives the impression that poetry is for him something to be toyed with, but, in the other, though he often uses the same

metre and rhythm, it is treated with all seriousness; and here we consider is to be found the fullest evidence of his poetical genius.

Whatever Fame may have in store for Byrom, she has certainly not, up to the present, been lavish to him beyond his deserts. He should not be amongst either the forgotten or the neglected authors; and, indeed, these two volumes of Miscellaneous Poems will be found to be interesting for many reasons, as, in addition to the grace, the style, and the humour of their contents-treating as they do of familiar, personal, and even trivial matters. -they give us occasional pictures of the times of their author and of his contemporaries, together with references to the purely local questions which moved both him and them, for which the student might search in vain the pages of orthodox history.

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Old year, that steal'st away,

Ere breaks the peep of day,

Treasures thou had'st for us, and hearty cheer;

But whilst Youth held the cup,

In laughter lifted up,

Sprang to those radiant eyes the silent tear.

II.

Sadness thou had'st in store

For hearts right glad before,

While from Life's utter darkness might be heard

Cry of a soul in pain

That yearn'd to breathe again,

And from pale, trembling lips a bitter word.

A year ago—ah me,

III.

That such a cry should be!

Ringing with trumpet-tongue throughout the vast ;

Far on the peaks of morn

New Hope again is born,

For, lo! the night of peril is o'erpast.

IV.

Behold! a shaft of light

Breaks o'er the field of night,

Falling on eyelids of the jocund day :

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