To have no being in whose kindred breast
The thoughts and sorrows of his own could rest;
To know of none to whom his eye might turn, ·
And sympathetic confidence discern;

To feel secluded in the world-alone!

Love, trust, and life's sweet charities unknown;
Oh! this were but a tyrant's life, to whom
The world is but a prison or a tomb;'

Cut off from social happiness, and left
In solitary sorrow, all bereft

Of that rich boon invaluably given,

Which points to kindred souls the path to heaven!

Thus far, dear H., obedient to your will,

These lays are penn'd; if small the poet-skill
Which they evince-if feebly touch'd the lyre,
And if no spark be seen of the full fire
Of glowing genius-yet should you commend,
And deem that in my notion of a Friend
There be some truth, not altogether vain
This effort, for not worthless is the strain
That's blest with your approval-nor could he,
Its humble writer, wholly pow'rless be:
For, when this portrait of a friend he drew,
He turn'd from worldlings, and he studied-YOU!

ΤΟ

MR. THOMAS PERFECT HARDING.

Kind friend and gentle minstrel! wilt thou take
This sketch, Count Julian, as an offering
Of friendship and affection? could I make

It worthier, and so strongly strike the string
Of my frail lyre, that all its tones should wake
The music of inspired imagining;
Then fearlessly and freely might I claim
To grace my pages with thy honored name.

But it is now, perchance, a worthless token
Though a sincere one; for the day is past
With me of poet-power-the spell is broken-

The charm dissolved whose strength seemed formed to last
Through life and stern experience hath spoken

The freezing words of truth: I stand aghast-
The clime that fancy found, and feeling prized,
In which the dreams of hope seemed realized-

Where youth, and love, and pleasure chose to dwell

As in a beauteous and unfading bower

To eye of worldlings imperceptible—

Where is this realm of fairy bliss and power?

Reality but touched it-and it fell

To utter ruin in one hapless hour

When change, and death, and falsehood proved to me

That ours is not the world of poesy.

J. W. D.

Count Julian.

PERSONS.

JULIAN.

GUIDO.

CONRADE.

EVERARD.

EVELINA,

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Count's Castle.

JULIAN alone.

ALMIGHTY God! I know no keener pang
The heart not wholly seared can bear or know
Than this-to feel a painful consciousness
Of secret crime:-and yet to meet from most
Profoundest reverence-from many love-

Profoundest reverence-from many love-
From all respect and prompt obedience.
This is the grief that most oppresses me―
This is the pang that drags my spirit down-
This is the sorrow that will know no rest-
This is the canker that corrodes my life-
And makes me suffer death ere death arrive.
Let me survey yon limitless expanse

[Rises, and goes to the window.

And calm my fever'd spirits.

"Twill be vain:

The night is gloomy, and its gloominess
Is in accordance with my moody soul.

The spirit of the storm rides in yon clouds,

And threats ere long to shake the subject earth!
And yet the day was calm and closed in peace ;-
So was the morning of my life;-its eve
Is dark and care-perturbed:-the storm begins!—
This is a scene that suits a soul like mine
In gloom like this I wish to live and die:
That ev'n as I began-so may I end!
This is most grateful—not a lonely star
To cast a pale and discomposed eye
Upon the gloomy vast!-One mighty cloud,
So dense and thick that I may almost grasp it,
As in a mantle wraps the heaven and earth!
[After a long pause he continues.]