struction. I most truly lament the condition to which we are reduced,'-he had, therefore, no resentments but against the common enemy." The same feelings characterize these Memoirs. The Administration of Lord Chatham, then Mr. Pitt, was the only means left to save a ruined nation;' and the details which he has entered into,' are only to delineate with accuracy the causes of this nation's fall,' which, to the author's ill-boding judgment, appeared to be inevitable. And though he had intimacies to a degree of friendship with most of the distinguished politicians of his time, yet those intimacies were contracted on the public account, that when his principles were deserted by them, their society was abandoned by him. Of Kings, though necessary to the Constitution and form of Government Junius was attached to, in these Memoirs the Author is equally unsparing of his censure, and unmindful of the mode of inforcing his invective against them. 'George II. is a weak, narrow, sordid, and unfeeling master, only calculated by Nature for a Pawnbroker's shop;' and again, he should be made sensible, not only that he should not be master, but that he should know and feel that he ought not to be so.' The King of Prussia is a fiend: and of Princes in general, their actions are not to be judged of by the rules of morality, before whose tribunal they would be all condemned in their turns, and undergo the severest punishment, if executioners were not wanting to the laws of Nature and of Justice; and the folly and servility of mankind were not the safeguard of Kings. In these Memoirs the political feeling of the Author may be accurately traced in his estimation, and varying hopes and fears of the conduct of Lord Chatham. He admired his talents, and seemed perfectly well to understand' their force and influence; at times, strongly attached to his measures, but at other times, doubts of his sincerity, and censures what he considers a dereliction of principle; and for twelve years withdrew himself from his intimacy from political principles alone. In the Letters of Junius there is the same admiration of his powers, the same sentiment of disesteem, when he made his great abilities subservient to measures which be disapproved; and even his celebrated panegyrick is guarded by expressions which seem to glance at a comprehensive view of his whole character. In estimating the circumstances on which the true dignity of his character should depend, the tone of feeling, though differently expressed, is very similar in both

these works. When Pitt was first appointed Secretary of State, from his having vacillated in his conduct, the Memoir says, All past offences were buried in oblivion.' The love of power and an ardent thirst of fame, were noble passions, honourable to him, and beneficial to his country, when their views were set in comparison with those which accompany the base attachment to money, the visible bane of our times.' Junius says, 'I confess he has grown upon my esteem. As for the common sordid views of avarice, or any purpose of vul gar ambition, I question whether the applause of Junius would be of service to Lord Chatham. But if his ambition be upon a level with his understanding; if he judges of what is truly honourable for himself, with the same superior genius which animates and directs him to eloquence in debate, to wisdom in decision, even the pen of Junius shall continue to reward him.'- Junius was an old reader of political controversies, and remembered the great Walpolean battles! The Author of these Memoirs was an antagonist of Walpole. And Pitt incurred discredit, in his estimation, for an indecent and needless encomium on Sir Robert Walpole,' against whom he had been one of the most violent, at the time that Minister was driven from the Administration. - Junius also declares himself to have dedicated his life to the information of his fellow-subjects. This Author took an active part in politics so early as the year 1739, and did not cease to direct his attention to that object during his whole life; and, whether his political opinions were well or ill-founded, he invariably adhered to them, believing them to be right.

"The Editor of these Memoirs could increase this Pamphlet to twice its size, if he were to indulge in minute criticism or analysis. He himself believes that they were written by the same Author, known to the publick under the signature of JUNIUS; but if the sentiments and opinions they contain, and the style in which they are delivered, should not convey the same force of evidence to others as to himself, it would be useless to descend to minute particulars to strengthen and support them. Every fact that the Editor is acquainted with perfectly coincides with his hypothesis, except one, which is an assertion made by Junius, that he was not personally known to George Grenville. How far this might be correctly true, or how far it might be a justifiable ruse under the existing circumstances, must be left for the publick to determine."

And here we also leave the question,

3. The Bride of Abydos, a Turkish Tale, by Lord Byron; 8vo. pp.72. Murray. THIS highly-wrought Tragic Tale, in its general complexion, has some resemblance to "The Giaour" but is a much more regular production. Every circumstance is unfolded with the Noble Baron's accustomed skill; and, as in the former Poem, whilst he harrows up the finer feelings of the soul, he delights by boldness of imagery and sublimity of description. The Personages of the Drama are, Giaffir, an old Pacha; Zuleika, his beautiful daughter; and Selim, the son of Abdallah (the brother of Giaffir, whom that ferocious Pacha had caused to be poisoned by a cup of coffee given to him when in the bath, and whose honours and fortune he had usurped). The life of the infant Selim had been spared; and, having been brought up as Giaffir's son, the tenderest fraternal affection subsisted between him and his supposed sister. The secret of his birth had been told to Selim by an old and faithful adherent of Abdallah; but to Zuleika it was not disclosed till the period when her father had destined her hand to Osman, kiusman of the Bey Oglou. Frantic at the idea of losing the treasure of his heart, Selim after twilight conducts her from the Haram to a

solitary grotto near the sca-shore,
whither, in the character of a sister,
she had frequently accompanied him.
"Since last she visited the spot, [grot:
Some change seem'd wrought within the
It might be only that the night
Disguised things seen by better light-
That brazen lamp but dimly threw
A ray of no celestial hue :

But in a nook within the cell
Her eye on stranger objects fell.
There arms were piled, not such as wield
The turban'd Delis in the field;
But brands of foreign blade and hilt,
And one was red-perchance with guilt;
Ah! how without can blood be spilt ?
A cup, too, on the board was set
That did not seem to hold sherbet.
What may this mean-she turn'd to see
Her Selim" Oh! can this be he?"
His robe of pride was thrown aside,
His brow no high crown'd turban bore,
But in its stead a shawl of red, [wore:
Wreath'd lightly round, his temples
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem
Were worthy of a diadem,
No longer glitter'd at his waist,
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced.

But were it not that high command
Spake in his eye, and tone and hand,
All that a careless eye could see
In him was some young Galiongée *.
I said I was not what I seem'd, [true;
And now thou seest my words were
have a tale thou hast not dreain'd,

I

If sooth -its truth must others rue. My story now 'twere vain to hide,

inust not see thee Osman's bride:

But had not thine own lips declared
How much of that young heart I shared,
I could not, must not, yet have shown
The darker secret of my own.-
In this I speak not now of love-
That-let time, truth, and peril prove ;
But first- Oh! never wed another
Zuleika! I am not thy brother'!"

Selim unfolds his whole history (which, on the first reading, we were disposed to think might be shortened with advantage); and informs Zuleika that a small band of pirates, with whom he had long been secretly connected, were in waiting; and entreats her to depart with him«With me this hour away-away—

But yet,though thou art plighted mine,
Wouldst thou recal thy willing vow,
Appall'd by truths imparted now—
Here rest I not to see thee wed,
But be that peril on my head!'

"Zuleika-mute and motionless,
Stood like that statue of distress-
When, her last hope for ever gone,
The mother harden'd into stone;
All in the maid that eye could see
Was but a younger Niobé!

But ere her lip, or even her eye,
Beneath the garden's wicket porch
Essay'd to speak, or look reply-
Far flash'd on high a blazing torch!
Another-and another-and another—
'Oh! fly-no more-yet now my more
than brother!"
Far-wide through every thicket spread,
The fearful lights are gleaming red;
Nor these alone for each right hand
Is ready with a sheathless brand:-
They part, pursue, return, and wheel
With searching flambeau, shining steel;

* A Turkish sailor.

And

And, last of all, his sabre waving,
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving,
And now almost they touch the cave-
Oh must that grot be Selim's grave?
Dauntless he stood-Tis come soon
past;

One kiss, Zuleika,-'tis my last;

But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal- -see the flashYet now too few-the attempt were rash: No matter-yet one effort more.' Forth to the cavern mouth he stept, His pistol's echo rang on high: Zuleika started not, nor wept,

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye! They hear me not, or if they ply Their oars, 'tis but to see me die; [nigh. That sound hath drawn my foes more Then forth my father's scimitar, Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war! Farewell, Zuleika! Sweet! retire

Yet stay within - here linger safe,
At thee his rage will only chase.→
Stir not lest even to thee perchance
Some erring blade or ball should glance:
Fear'st thou for him?-may I expire
If in this strife I seek thy sire!.
No-though by him that poison pour'd,
No-though again he call me coward!--
But tamely shall I meet their steel?
No-as each crest save his may feel!'
One bound he made, and gain'd the sand;
Already at his feet bath sunk
The foremost of the prying band—

A gasping head, a quivering trunk;
Another falls but round him close
A swarming circle of his foes:
From right to left his path he cleft,

And almost met the meeting wave ;His boat appears-not five oars' length; His comrades strain with desperate strength

Oh! are they yet in time to save? His feet the foremost breakers lave; His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray; Wet-wild-unwearied to the strand They struggle-now they touch the land! They come: 'tis but to add to slaughterHis heart's best blood is on the water! Escaped from shot unharm'd by steel, Or scarcely grazed its force to feelHad Selim won,-though thus beset, To where the strand and billows metThere as his last step left the land, And the last death-blow dealt his hand, Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain? That pause-that fatal gaze he tookHath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain; Sad proof-in peril and in pain How late will Lover's hope remain!His back was to the dashing spray; Behind, but close, his comrades lay

When at the instant hissed the ball,
'So may the foes of Giaffir fall!'
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine
rang?

Whose bullet through the night-air sang?
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err,—
"Tis thine Abdallah's Murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son bath found a quicker fate-
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling,
If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choak'd the tone!"
Zuleika was spared the sight of
Selim's death. Petrified with terror
and despair,

"That fearful moment when he left
the cave

Thy heart grew chill;

He was thy hope, thy joy, thy love, thine all[couldst not save,

And that last thought on him thou

Sufficed to kill— [stillBurst forth in one wild cry, and all was Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin

grave!"

"Within the place of thousand tombs

That shine beneath, while dark above The sad but living cypress glooms, [leaf And withers not, though branch and Are stamp'd with an eternal grief; Like early unrequited Love! One spot exists-which ever blooms, Ev'n in that deadly grove. A single rose is shedding there

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale, It looks as planted by Despair

So white so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high; [assail, And yet, though storms and blight And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vain→→→ To-morrow sees it bloom again! The stalk some Spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears.

For well may Maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour,

And buds unshelter'd by a bower, Nor droops though Spring refuse her shower,

Nor woos the summer-beam."

The foregoing will afford a tolerable idea both of the story, and of the powerful interest, and the exquisite feeling, which the Author has every where infused into this poetical bijou, We cannot, however, refrain from making a few other extracts.

What a variety of beautiful and appropriate imagery has the Author combined in the few introductory lines of the Poem!

“ Know

did to contrast them, or to place them in competition. They have each their peculiar merit. The one, soaring like the bold eagle, dazzling like a splendid meteor; the other, like the elegant but plaintive Philomel, delights by the placid sweetness of Spenserian strains; and, not unfrequently, raising his melodious note, resembles the Lark who "at Heaven's gate sings." The Work is inscribed to Lord Eldon, the present Lord HighChancellor, in terms of such modest dignity as reflect equal honour both on the Writer and his Noble Friend; and with sentiments of the profoundest gratitude to that firm Pillar of the State, whose transcendant talents, and more particularly his manly firmness to his Sovereign, this Country can never forget. From this Dedication we shall present our Readers with a specimen of Lord Thurlow's Prose:

"In this fair morning of the Liberty of Europe, after a long night of solicitude and counsel, in which your Lordship's wisdom has been eminently seen; I approach your Lordship with a Poem, which, it may be, shall beguile you of somne moments of severer thought. This tabour of two days, otherwise undeserving of your Lordship's favour, present Ꭸ to you on two accounts: first, because I conceive that it contains no thought unworthy of your Lordship's greatness, founded on virtue; and, secondly, because I have herein expressed my boundless debt of gratitude to him who preceded your Lordship in the Chair of Counsel and State; and who, as he was the ornament and founder of his family, so was he a fair and majestic Pillar of the Commonwealth. Between him and your Lordship there ever existed a wise and affectionate friendship: and I therefore commit to your favour my own humble tribute to his memory, and the Verses which I have preserved of his writing; wherein your Lordship's excellent taste and learning will discover, that no greater man had been in the translating of the elder Poets, if either his fortune or his pleasure had led him to that pursuit."

We have repeatedly given specimens of Lord Thurlow's ingenuous Muse (see our last volume, pp. ii. 354, 365, 469, 579, 580, 589; and the present Number, p. 63). The principal Poem in the present Collection is intituled "Moonlight," aud, though a somewhat hasty production, it has many beautiful passages. It begins with the following Invocation;

"Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me: [confin'd Since the great Princes of the world, Within the pomp and pageantry of state, Deny thy presence, to whose searching eye The world, and its ambition, is a dream, And all its glorious and loud-sounding

pomp,

[ear, But musick to a spectacle of woe. [me: Charmful to sense, well weighed in thy I offer thee my heart, and with it too Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with Such entertainment as that heart can give,

A fellowship of thought, a deep desire, E'en to the verge of madness, to pursue The track of meditation,whilst the Moon, Emerging from the lightly-flying clouds, Laughs in her pomp, and, with her palest light,

Sits Arbitress in the mid plains of Heav'n: Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with

Blest harbingers of bliss, and beacons fair, That guide our wand'ring footsteps through a world

Of error, that our falt'ring feet beguiles."

Continuing to hold sweet converse with the Muse, he proceeds, "Awhile, O dear Companion of my steps, Awhile to this seclusion let us pass, [yew Where, underneath the laurel and the The owl loud hooting to the frosty air, Reposing in this shade our dewy feet, We may observe the Chariot of the Moon Wheel her pale course through the mid plains of Heaven. [wheels,

Link we our souls unto her burning
And, in her flaming orbit, let us pass
O'er sea and land in our entranced
Oh me, what a prodigious height we soar
thought!
Above the bright expanse; how trifling