the admiration and sympathy, or at least the wonder and gaze of men. He was desirous of possessing some extraordinary distinction, which should separate him from all others, as one entitled to peculiar regard. He wished to exhibit himself as standing alone, among men, but not of them ;"

In a shroud of thoughts,
Which were not their thoughts."

But this is a passion, the most irritating, and the most liable to disappointment. Its natural tendency is to misanthropy. He, whom it possesses, is led to look upon those around him as selfish, low minded, cold, and unjust; because they do not view him as an object of particular interest. He is utterly discontented with that small portion, which most of us can fairly claim, of the general regard of others; of the regard of any, except those

few, whom we may have attached to us by virtue, kindness, and equal returns of sympathy. He feels as if he were defrauded of his rights by his fellow-men, when they suffer him to remain unnoticed. The strong workings of this passion at last made Byron a poet; and a poet, whose principal subject, presented either with or without disguise, was himself. The passion attained its object; but not its gratification, for that is impossible. Byron had, at last, few rivals in fame, and was as miserable, and more degraded than before.

While yet at the University, at the age of nineteen, he published his first volume of poems. There is much in them which shows an unformed mind, an unpractised hand, and a want of good taste. But, considering the age at which they were written, they are

uncommon productions. To say the least, and that is saying but little,, they are as good as three quarters of the verses, to be found in those monumental depositories, called bodies of English pcetry. What is most remarkable, with but a few exceptions, they discover little of that peculiar moral character, and of those dark feelings, which afterward were among the most striking characteristics of his poetry. They express, for the most part, common sentiments and affections. Several of them are addressed to youthful friends, and written with much appearance of feeling. The volume, in general, hardly connects itself with the subsequent exhibitions of his mind. We will give a few extracts, not so much for the sake of the poetry, as to illustrate the poetical character, in which Byron, at this

time, wished to appear, corresponding, probably, in a considerable degree, to the yet unfixed state of his real character.

Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other,
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love, which you felt, was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion,

The attachment of years, in a moment expires; Like Love, too, she moves on a swift waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow;
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now.

No more with Affection shall Memory blending
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace;
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice, appears a disgrace.

However, dear S

for I still must esteem you,

The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid,

The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live;
My bosom is calmed by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.

You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

You knew,

--but away with the vain retrospection,
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

For the present, we part,—I will hope not for ever,
For time and regret will restore you at last;
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.