With the poets, and the knowledge of what Byron _was_, we may ask what he would have been had it pleased the Great Author of all things to suffer the summer of his consummate mental powers to shine upon us? Take the works of any of the abovenamed distinguished individuals previous to their thirty-eighth year, and shall we perceive that flexibility of the English language to the extent that Byron has left behind him? His versatility was, indeed, astonishing and triumphant. His _Childe Harold_, the _Bride of Abydos_, the _Corsair_, and _Don Juan_, (though somewhat too freely written,) are established proofs of his unequalled energy of mind. His power was unlimited; not only eloquent, but the sublime, grave and gay, were all equally familiar to his muse. Few words are wanted to show that Byron was not depraved at heart; no man possessed a more ready sympathy, a more generous mind to the distressed, or was a more enthusiastic admirer of noble actions. These feelings all strongly delineated in his character, would never admit, as Sir Walter Scott has observed, "an imperfect moral sense, nor feeling, dead to virtue." Severe as the "Combined usurpers on the throne of taste" have been, his character is marked by some of the best principles in many parts of his writings. "The records there of friendships, held like rocks, And enmities like sun-touch'd snow resign'd," are frequently visible. His glorious attachment to the Grecian cause is a sufficient recompense for _previous_ follies exaggerated and propagated by calumny's poisonous tongue. In a word, "there is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing muses." A. B. C. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE WIDOWED MOTHER TO HER CHILD. BY THE AUTHOR Of "AHAB." (_For the Mirror._) O Sink to sleep, my darling boy, Thy father's dead, thy mother lonely, Of late thou wert his pride, his joy, But now thou hast not one to own thee. The cold wide world before us lies, But oh! such heartless things live in it, It makes me weep--then close thine eyes Tho' it be but for one short minute. O sink to sleep, my baby dear, A little while forget thy sorrow, The wind is cold, the night is drear, But drearier it will be to-morrow. For none will help, tho' many see Our wretchedness--then close thine eyes, love, Oh, most unbless'd on earth is she Who on another's aid relies, love. Thou hear'st me not! thy heart's asleep Already, and thy lids are closing, Then lie thee still, and I will weep Whilst thou, my dearest, art reposing, And wish that I could slumber free, And with thee in yon heaven awaken, O would that it our home might be, For here we are by all forsaken. * * * * * PAY OF THE JUDGES IN FORMER TIMES. (_For the Mirror._)