And canst thou bare thy breast to vulgar eyes?
And canst thou show the wounds that rankle there?
Methought in noble hearts that sorrow lies
Too deep to suffer coarser minds to share.
The wounds inflicted by the hand we love,
(The hand that should have warded off each blow,)
Are never heal'd, as aching hearts can prove,
But sacred should the stream of sorrow flow.
If friendship's pity quells not real grief,
Can public pity soothe thy woes to sleep? -
No! Byron, spurn such vain, such weak relief,
And if thy tears must fall - in secret weep.
He never appeared to so little advantage as when he talked sentiment; this did not at all strike me at first; on the contrary, it excited a powerful interest for him; but when he had vented his spleen in sarcasms, and pointed ridicule on sentiment, reducing all that is noblest in our natures to the level of common every-day life, the charm was broken, and it was impossible to sympathize with him again. He observed something of this, and seemed dissatisfied and restless when he perceived that he could no longer excite either strong sympathy or astonishment. Notwithstanding all these contradictions in this wayward, spoiled child of genius, the impression left on my mind was, that he had both sentiment and romance in his nature; but that, from the love of displaying his wit and as-
