The mind, which is immortal, makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time, is transplanted from Milton with as little change as Milton made in transplanting it from Marlowe. The author's own favourite passage, the invocation to the sun (act iii., sc. 2), has some sublimity, marred by lapses. The lyrics scattered through the poem sometimes open well, e.g.,-- Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a null of snow; but they cannot sustain themselves like true song-birds, and fall to the ground like spent rockets. This applies to Byron's lyrics generally; turn to the incantation in the _Deformed Transformed_: the first line and a half are in tune,-- Beautiful shadow of Thetis's boy, Who sleeps in the meadow whose grass grows o'er Troy. Nor Sternhold nor Hopkins has more ruthlessly outraged our ears than the next two-- From the red earth, like Adam, thy likeness I shape, As the Being who made him, whose actions I ape(!) Of his songs: "There be none of Beauty's daughters," "She walks in beauty," "Maid of Athens," "I enter thy garden of roses," the translation "Sons of the Greeks," and others, have a flow and verve that it is pedantry to ignore; but in general Byron was too much of the earth earthy to be a great lyrist. Some of the greatest have lived wild lives, but their wings were not weighted with the lead of the love of the world.