t the
constant exercise of generosity of soul, in inferior degrees, will give
him power to reach that sublime height, and, summing up all in one,
arrive at _the crowning sacrifice of his life_.

Already more than once, in Italy, and especially in Romagna, when that
peninsula was preparing a grand struggle for independence, Lord Byron
had shown himself ready to make any sacrifice, to aid in throwing off
Austrian chains. But, owing to subsequent events, his extreme
devotedness could not then go beyond the offer made. Two years later it
was accepted; an enslaved nation, eager for redemption, asked Lord
Byron's assistance toward regaining its liberty. In this sacrifice on
his part, no single feature of greatness is wanting. Lord Byron would
have been great, had he sacrificed himself for his country; but how much
greater was he in sacrificing himself for a foreign nation, for the
general cause of humanity? He would still have remained great, had he
been led into this noble sacrifice by his own enthusiasm, by his
illusions, by personal hopes. But no illusion, no enthusiasm, impelled
him toward Greece; naught save the satisfaction caused in a noble mind
by the performance of a great action. He did not even hope to escape
ingratitude or to silence calumny; for, although so young, he had
already acquired the experience of mature years. He knew Greece, and was
well aware what he should find there, in exchange for his repose and for
all dear to him in this world. We know what sadness overwhelmed his soul
during the last period of his sojourn at Genoa. The struggles he had
with his own heart may be imagined, when we reflect, that despite his
self-control, he was more than once surprised with tears in his eyes.

When hardly out of port from Genoa, a tempest cast him back. He landed,
and resolved on visiting the abode he had left with such anguish the day
before. While climbing the hill of Albano, the darkest presentiments
took possession of his soul. "Where shall we be this day next year?"
said he to Count Gamba, who was walking by his side. Alas! we know that
precisely that day next year, his mortal remains were carried through
the streets of London, on their way to repose with his ancestors, near
Newstead. His sorrow only increased on arriving at the palace. His
friends were gone; all within that dwelling was silent, deserted,
solitary. He asked to be left alone; and then shut himself up in his
apartments, remaining there for sev