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.--_The Edinburgh Review_.

_Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage. A Romaunt_. _By_ LORD BYRON. The Second
Edition. London: Murray, Fleet Street. 1812. 8vo. pp. 300. Price 12s.

If the object of poetry is to instruct by pleasing, then every poetical
effort has a double claim upon the attention of the Christian observer.
For we are anxious that the world should be instructed at all rates, and
that they should be pleased where they innocently may. We are,
therefore, by no means among those spectators who view the occasional
ascent of a poetic luminary upon the horizon of literature, as a
meteoric flash which has no relation to ourselves; but we feel instantly
an eager desire to find its altitude, to take its bearings, to trace its
course, and to calculate its influence upon surrounding bodies. When
especially it is no more an "oaten reed" that is blown; or a "simple
shepherd" who blows it; but when the song involves many high and solemn
feelings, and a man of rank and notoriety strikes his golden harp, we
feel, at once, that the increased influence of the song demands the more
rigid scrutiny of the critic.

Lord Byron is the author, beside the book before us, of a small volume
of poems, which gave little promise, we think, of the present work; and
of a satyrical poem, which, as far as temper is concerned, did give some
promise of it. It had pleased more than one critic to treat his
Lordship's first work in no very courtier-like manner; and especially
the