Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, a Minor. Svo. pp. 200.-Newark, 1807.

THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water, As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, <«< See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!»-But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege, our author rather brings forward in order to wave it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestorssometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assu him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, eve when accompanied by the presence of a certain numb of feet; nay, although (which does not always happe those feet should scan regularly, and have been counted accurately, upon the fingers,—it is not t whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believ that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fanc is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem the present day, to be read, must contain at least of thought, either in a little degree different from t ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. W put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so d serving the name of poetry in verses like the followin written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighte could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, youth of nineteen should publish it :

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ;
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied..

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers « O a Tear,» might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas a the following:

Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail,
With the blast of the gale,
Through b llows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear..

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for transLating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. It our readers, however, are of another opinion, they * may look at it.

Ah gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,
Friend and assecrate of this clay!

To what unknown region borac,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No me with wanted hamour gay.

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; aal, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Oy, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79, ¦ a translation, where two words (6ɛho hɛyɛcy) of the enal are expanded into four lines, and the other

ag in p. 81,3 where pesovuztiots mo9'ò pats, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Os

ne poesy we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compoturn, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a << Song of Bards,» is by his Lontship, we venture to object to it, as far as we a compehend it. What form rises on the roar of als whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of terijasta? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the own chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining uns « brown chiefs some time, the bards conclude by giving bam their advice to raise his fair locks;» then * to « spread them on the arch of the rainbow;» and « to

ok through the tears of the storm.>> Of this kind of haug there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome.

It is sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but the should use it as not abusing it;» and particuLelv en who piques himself (though indeed at the

e of nineteen, of being an infaut bard.»The artless Helicon I boast is youth;»)-should either nat know, or should seem not to know, so much about 1 su bet try. Besides a poem above cited, on the famgly seat of the Byrous, we have another of eleven pages on the same subject, introduced with an pelo he certainly had no intention of inserting but really the particular request of some friends,>> de etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, « the

last and youngest of a noble line.» There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effuIn an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas:

sions.

- There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes

Sits poring by the midnight lamp,
Goes late to bed, yet early riscs.
Who reads false quantities in Sele,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle,
Deprived of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous latin doom'd to wrangle:

- Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use,
Preferring to the letter'd sage

The square of the bypotbenuse.

Still harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent..

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is contained in the following Attic

stanzas:

Our choir would scarcely be excused
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended:

In furious mood be would have tore 'em!

But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland,» he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; and, whether it succeeds or not, « it is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits hereafter,» that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but «< has the sway» of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth.

Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Tho spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
luspires-our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway,
And men, through life her willing slaves, obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;

When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail,
Een then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies c'en for me to chase,
And vield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-
The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game;
Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small,
Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all!

I too can scrawl, and once upon a time

1 pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme-
As hool-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame:
I printed-older children do the same.
Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book is a book, altho' there's nothing in 't.
Not that a title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This Lamer must own, since his patrician name
Faild to preserve the spurious farce from shame.'
No matter, GEORGE Continues still to write,3
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The wif-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY'S-yet, like him, will be
wii-constituted judge of poesy.

A mars must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure-critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mad well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A tarn for punuing, call it Attic salt;
To Jury go, be silent and discreet,
H's pov is just ten sterling pounds per
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit;

sheet :

2

To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste;
To these, when authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law;
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare ;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.

3 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before:
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed:
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy isle, a POPE's pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN pour'd the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE'S Scenes could cheer, or OTWAY's melt-
For nature then an English audience felt.
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire's self allow,
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now:
The loaded press beneath her labour groans,
And printers' devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY's epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves.

Thus saith the Preacher,4 « nought beneath the sun Is new;» yet still from change to change we run: What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts-and all is air! Nor less new schools of poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal,

1 Messrs JEFFRET and LAMBE are the Alpha and Omega, the firs and last, of the EDINBURGH REVIEW: the others are mentioned hereafter.

Stulta est clementia, cum tot ubique

---occurras periture parcere chaite.-Juvenal, Sat. 1.

& IMITATION.

Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo

Per quem magnus eques Aurunce flexit alumnus:

Si vacat, et placidi rationem admitatis, edam.-Juvenal, Sat. 1.

4 Ecclesiastes, Cap. 1.