The picture is not barren of instruction to actual men.  The Poet’s self-centred seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion pursuing him to speedy ruin.  But that Power which strikes the luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening them to too exquisite a perception of its influences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those manner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion.  Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as their delinquency is more contemptible and pernicious.  They who, deluded by no generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with human grief; these, and such as they, have their apportioned curse.  They languish, because none feel with them their common nature.  They are morally dead.  They are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their country.  Among those who attempt to exist without human sympathy, the pure and tender-hearted perish through the intensity and passion of their search after its communities, when the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself felt.  All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, together with their own, the lasting misery and loneliness of the world.  Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.

’The good die first,
And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket!’

December 14, 1815.

ALASTOR:  OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE.

Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! 
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 5
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight’s tingling silentness;
If autumn’s hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the grey grass and bare boughs; 10
If spring’s voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred; then forgive 15
This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favour now!