and they are beginning to find their proper level. Their value is two-fold—immortal and eternal, as records of thoughts and feelings which must be immortally and eternally interesting to the mind of individual man; historical, because they are the most complete chronicle of a particular set of impulses in the public mind.
How much of the first sort of value the poems of Byron possess, posterity must decide, and the verdict can only be ascertained by degrees; I, for one, should say not much. There are many beautiful pictures; infinite wit, but too local and temporary in its range to be greatly prized beyond his own time; little originality; but much vigor, both of thought and expression; with a deep, even a passionate love of the beautiful and grand. I have often thought, in relation to him, of Wordsworth’s description of
| “A youth to whom was given |
| So much of Earth, so much of Heaven, |
| And such impetuous blood.”
***** |
| “Whatever in those climes he found, |
| Irregular in sight or sound, |
| Did to his mind impart |
| A kindred impulse, seemed allied |
| To his own powers, and justified |
| The workings of his heart. |
| Nor less to feed voluptuous thought, |
| The beauteous forms of nature wrought, |
| Fair trees and lovely flowers; |
| The breezes their own languor lent, |
| The stars had feelings which they sent |
| Into those gorgeous bowers. |
| And in his worst pursuits, I ween, |
| That sometimes there did intervene |
| Pure hopes of high intent; |
