ariety of impressive and original images.
But there is a still finer poem which belongs to this period of his
history, though written, I believe, before he reached Venice--The
Lament of Tasso: and I am led to notice it the more particularly, as
one of its noblest passages affords an illustration of the opinion
which I have early maintained--that Lord Byron's extraordinary
pretensions to the influence of love was but a metaphysical
conception of the passion.

It is no marvel--from my very birth
My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth;
Of objects all inanimate I made
Idols, and out of wild and lovely flowers,
And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours.

It has been remarked by an anonymous author of Memoirs of Lord Byron,
a work written with considerable talent and acumen, that "this is so
far from being in character, that it is the very reverse; for whether
Tasso was in his senses or not, if his love was sincere, he would
have made the object of his affection the sole theme of his
meditation, instead of generalising his passion, and talking about
the original sympathies of his nature." In truth, no poet has better
described love than Byron has his own peculiar passion.

His love was passion's essence--as a tree
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be
Thus enamour'd were in him the same.
But his was not the love of living dame,
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,
But of ideal beauty, which became
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems.

In tracing the course of Lord Byron's career, I have not deemed it at
all necessary to advert to the instances of his generosity, or to
conduct less pleasant to record. Enough has appeared to show that he
was neither deficient in warmth of heart nor in less amiable
feelings; but, upon the whole, it is not probable that either in his
charities or his pleasures he was greatly different from other young
men, though he undoubtedly had a wayward delight in magnifying his
excesses, not in what was to his credit, like most men, but in what
was calculated to do him no honour. More notoriety has been given to
an instance of lavish liberality at Venice, than the case deserved,
though it was unquestionably prompted by a charitab