To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt
Where the virtue is felt.
And its dew is diffused in a tear.

The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a tear.


"And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do
not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage,
Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded indifferently in
the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they
may look at it.


Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay,
To what unknown region borne
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.


"However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations