of death, then the poet's similitude is lost, for, unlike the steady Iris to which he likens her, Hope will in these circumstances, for a time at least, be extinguished in despair.
Nor do I think that the poet is more happy in his efforts where he again speaks of this Iris
" Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien."
I object to this similitude on the same grounds on which I objected to the former one. This Iris does not resemble Love watching Madness with unalterable mien: no two things were ever more unlike. Our feelings, mine at least, revolt against the association. The poet has here attempted to stimulate himself and us to entertain feelings which the situation does not of itself suggest. These similitudes are not rooted in genuine inspiration. Their beauty is a spurious beauty: they are specimens of the false sublime. Here the poet has trusted to the earthly and not to the celestial impulse.
The exercise of Lord Byron's imagination is, to my mind, stained throughout with vices of this nature. His best passages are often sullied with mortal stains, because he refused to acknowledge the obligations due to the genius of which he was the depository. Listen to his voice amid the thunderstorm:—
" The sky is changed! and such a change! O Night
And storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman."
"As is the light of a dark eye in woman!" Oh
