“But let this pass—­I’ll whine no more. 
        Nor seek again an eastern shore;
        The world befits a busy brain,—­
        I’ll hie me to its haunts again. 
        But if, in some succeeding year,
        When Britain’s ‘May is in the sere,’
        Thou hear’st of one, whose deepening crimes
        Suit with the sablest of the times,
        Of one, whom Love nor Pity sways,
        Nor hope of fame, nor good men’s praise,
        One, who in stern Ambition’s pride,
        Perchance not Blood shall turn aside,
        One rank’d in some recording page
        With the worst anarchs of the age,
        Him wilt thou know—­and, knowing, pause,
        Nor with the effect forget the cause.”

* * * * *

The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him.  It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark “sublime he drew,” and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find, in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil.

It was about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling and expressing the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one, “Thyrza,” were written;—­nor is it any wonder, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions flowed from his fancy, that of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure.  They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs;—­a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage through his fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling.  In retracing the happy hours he had known with the friends now lost, all the ardent tenderness of his youth came back upon him.  His school-sports with the favourites of his boyhood, Wingfield and Tattersall,—­his summer days with Long[28], and those evenings of music and romance which he had dreamed away in the society of his adopted brother, Eddlestone,—­all these recollections of the young and dead now came to mingle themselves in his mind with the image of her who, though living, was, for him, as much lost as they, and diffused that general feeling of sadness and fondness through his soul, which found a vent in these poems.  No friendship, however warm, could have inspired sorrow so passionate; as no love, however pure, could have kept passion so chastened.  It was the blending of the two affections, in his memory and imagination, that thus gave birth to an ideal object combining the best features of both, and drew from him these saddest and tenderest of love-poems, in which we find all the depth and intensity of real feeling touched over with such a light as no reality ever wore.