1816-1818, were a great advance upon the first two, and contain the best of Byron’s serious poetry.  He has written his name all over the continent of Europe, and on a hundred memorable spots has made the scenery his own.  On the field of Waterloo, on “the castled crag of Drachenfels,” “by the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,” in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, in the Coliseum at Rome, and among the “Isles of Greece,” the tourist is compelled to see with Byron’s eyes and under the associations of his pilgrimage.  In his later poems, such as Beppo, 1818, and Don Juan, 1819-1823, he passed into his second manner, a mocking cynicism gaining ground upon the somewhat stagey gloom of his early poetry—­Mephistophiles gradually elbowing out Satan. Don Juan, though morally the worst, is intellectually the most vital and representative of Byron’s poems.  It takes up into itself most fully the life of the time; exhibits most thoroughly the characteristic alternations of Byron’s moods and the prodigal resources of wit, passion, and understanding, which—­rather than imagination—­were his prominent qualities as a poet.  The hero, a graceless, amorous stripling, goes wandering from Spain to the Greek islands and Constantinople, thence to St. Petersburg, and finally to England.  Every-where his seductions are successful, and Byron uses him as a means of exposing the weakness of the human heart and the rottenness of society in all countries.  In 1823, breaking away from his life of selfish indulgence in Italy, Byron threw himself into the cause of Grecian liberty, which he had sung so gloriously in the Isles of Greece.  He died at Missolonghi, in the following year, of a fever contracted by exposure and overwork.

Byron was a great poet but not a great literary artist.  He wrote negligently and with the ease of assured strength; his mind gathering heat as it moved, and pouring itself forth in reckless profusion.  His work is diffuse and imperfect; much of it is melodrama or speech-making, rather than true poetry.  But, on the other hand, much, very much of it is unexcelled as the direct, strong, sincere utterance of personal feeling.  Such is the quality of his best lyrics, like When We Two Parted, the Elegy on Thyrza, Stanzas to Augusta, She Walks in Beauty, and of innumerable passages, lyrical and descriptive, in his longer poems.  He had not the wisdom of Wordsworth, nor the rich and subtle imagination of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats when they were at their best.  But he had greater body and motive force than any of them.  He is the strongest personality among English poets since Milton, though his strength was wasted by want of restraint and self-culture.  In Milton the passion was there, but it was held in check by the will and the artistic conscience, made subordinate to good ends, ripened by long reflection, and finally uttered in forms of perfect and harmonious beauty.  Byron’s love of Nature was quite different in kind from Wordsworth’s.  Of all English poets he has sung most lyrically of that national theme, the sea; as witness, among many other passages, the famous apostrophe to the ocean which closes Childe Harold, and the opening of the third canto in the same poem,