ry, and associate it with music; they are perpetuated by the
universal conviction that they delight the ear. Like the armour which
adorns the modern hall, they were contrived for use, but are continued
for ornament.

Assuming this, then, to be a just definition of poetry, we repeat our
assertion, that, in the work before us, the temperament of mind in the
poet creates the grand defect of the poetry. If poetry should instruct,
then he is a defective poet whose lessons rather revolt than improve the
mind. If poetry should please, then he is a bad poet who offends the
eye by calling up the most hideous images--who shews the world through a
discoloured medium--who warms the heart by no generous feelings--who
uniformly turns to us the worst side of men and things--who goes on his
way grumbling, and labours hard to make his readers as peevish and
wretched as himself. The tendency of the strain of Homer is to transform
us for the moment into heroes; of Cowper, into saints; of Milton, into
angels: but Lord Byron would almost degrade us into a Thersites or a
Caliban; or lodge us, as fellow-grumblers, in the style of Diogenes, or
any of his two or four-footed snarling or moody posterity. Now his
Lordship, we trust, is accessible upon much higher grounds; but he will
perceive that mere regard for his poetical reputation ought to induce
him to change his manner. If, as Longinus instructs us, a man must feel
sublimely to write sublimely, a poet must find pleasure in the objects
of nature before him, if he hope to give pleasure to others. Let him
remember, that not merely his conceptions, but his mind and character
are to be imparted to us in his verse. He will, in a measure, "stamp an
image of himself!" The fire with which we are to glow must issue from
him. Till this change take place in him, then, he can be no great poet.
It is Heraclitus who mourns in his pages, or Zeno who scolds, or Zoilus
who lashes; but we look in vain for the poet, for the living fountain of
our innocent pleasures, for the artificer of our literary delight, for
the hand which, as by enchantment, snatches us from the little cares of
life, whirls us into the boundless regions of imagination, "exhausting"
one "world," and imagining others, to supply pictures which may refresh
and charm the mind.[L] Lord Byron shews us man and nature, like the
phantasmagoria, _in shade_; whereas, in poetry at least, we desire to
see them illuminated by all the friendly rays which