Did Hope--could Hope ever sit by _such_ a death-bed! The infernal surge--the hell of waters--the howling--the hissing--the boiling in endless torture--the sweat of the great agony wrung out--and more of the same sort--_these image the death-bed_. Hope has sat beside many a sad--many a miserable death-bed--but not by such as this; and yet, here, such a death-bed is hinted at as not uncommon--in a few words--"like Hope upon a death-bed." The simile came not of itself--it was sought for--and had far better have been away. There is much bad writing here, too--"unworn"--"unshorn" --"torn"--"dyes"--"hues"--"beams"--"torture _of the scene_"--epithet heaped on epithet, without any clear perception, or sincere emotion--the Iris changing from Hope upon a death-bed to Love watching Madness--both of which I pronounce, before that portion of mankind assembled in this Tent, to be on the FALSETTO--and wide from the thoughts that visit the suffering souls of the children of men remembering this life's greatest calamities. SEWARD. Yet throughout, sir, there is Power. NORTH. Power! My dear Seward, who denies it? But great Power--true poetical Power--is self-collected--not turbulent though dealing with turbulence--in its own stately passion dominating physical nature in its utmost distraction--and in her blind forces seeing a grandeur--a sublimity that only becomes visible or audible to the senses, through the action of imagination creating its own consistent ideal world out of that turmoil--making the fury of falling waters appeal to our Moral Being, from whose depths and heights rise emotions echoing all the tones of the thundering cataract. In these stanzas of Byron, the main Power is in the Cataract--not in the Poetry--loud to the ear--to the eye flashing and foaming--full of noise and fury, signifying not much to the soul, as it stuns and confounds the senses--while its more spiritual significations are uncertain, or unintelligible, accepted with doubt, or rejected without hesitation, because felt to be false and deceitful, and but brilliant mockeries of the Truth. TALBOYS. Spare Byron, who is a Poet--and castigate some popular Versifier. NORTH. I will not spare Byron--and just because he is a Poet. For popular Versifiers, they may pipe at their pleasure, but aloof from our Tents--chirp anywhere but in this Encampment; and if there be a Gowdspink or Yellow-hammer among them, let us incline our ear kindly to his chattering or his yammering, "low doun in the broom," or high up on his apple-tree, in outfield or orchard, and pray that never naughty schoolboy may harry his nest. SEWARD. Would Sir Walter's Poetry stand such critical examination? NORTH. All--or nearly so--directly dealing with War--Fighting in all its branches. Indeed, with any kind of Action he seldom fails--in Reflection, often--and, strange to say, almost as often in description of Nature, though there in his happier hours he excels. SEWARD.