by the sustained force and brilliancy of his style and imagery.  Lord Byron’s earlier productions, Lara, the Corsair, &c. were wild and gloomy romances, put into rapid and shining verse.  They discover the madness of poetry, together with the inspiration:  sullen, moody, capricious, fierce, inexorable, gloating on beauty, thirsting for revenge, hurrying from the extremes of pleasure to pain, but with nothing permanent, nothing healthy or natural.  The gaudy decorations and the morbid sentiments remind one of flowers strewed over the face of death!  In his Childe Harold (as has been just observed) he assumes a lofty and philosophic tone, and “reasons high of providence, fore-knowledge, will, and fate.”  He takes the highest points in the history of the world, and comments on them from a more commanding eminence:  he shews us the crumbling monuments of time, he invokes the great names, the mighty spirit of antiquity.  The universe is changed into a stately mausoleum:—­in solemn measures he chaunts a hymn to fame.  Lord Byron has strength and elevation enough to fill up the moulds of our classical and time-hallowed recollections, and to rekindle the earliest aspirations of the mind after greatness and true glory with a pen of fire.  The names of Tasso, of Ariosto, of Dante, of Cincinnatus, of Caesar, of Scipio, lose nothing of their pomp or their lustre in his hands, and when he begins and continues a strain of panegyric on such subjects, we indeed sit down with him to a banquet of rich praise, brooding over imperishable glories,

  “Till Contemplation has her fill.”

Lord Byron seems to cast himself indignantly from “this bank and shoal of time,” or the frail tottering bark that bears up modern reputation, into the huge sea of ancient renown, and to revel there with untired, outspread plume.  Even this in him is spleen—­his contempt of his contemporaries makes him turn back to the lustrous past, or project himself forward to the dim future!—­Lord Byron’s tragedies, Faliero,[B] Sardanapalus, &c. are not equal to his other works.  They want the essence of the drama.  They abound in speeches and descriptions, such as he himself might make either to himself or others, lolling on his couch of a morning, but do not carry the reader out of the poet’s mind to the scenes and events recorded.  They have neither action, character, nor interest, but are a sort of gossamer tragedies, spun out, and glittering, and spreading a flimsy veil over the face of nature.  Yet he spins them on.  Of all that he has done in this way the Heaven and Earth (the same subject as Mr. Moore’s Loves of the Angels) is the best.  We prefer it even to Manfred. Manfred is merely himself, with a fancy-drapery on:  but in the dramatic fragment published in the Liberal, the space between Heaven and Earth, the stage on which his characters have to pass to and fro, seems to fill his Lordship’s imagination; and the Deluge, which he has so finely described, may be said to have drowned all his own idle humours.