’Child of Harrow’s Pilgrimage!!!!!’ as he has done to some of my astonished friends, who wrote to enquire after my sanity on the occasion, as well they might.  I have heard nothing of Murray, whom I scolded heartily.  Must I write more notes?—­Are there not enough?—­Cawthorn must be kept back with the ’Hints.’—­I hope he is getting on with Hobhouse’s quarto.  Good evening.  Yours ever,” &c.

* * * * *

Of the same date with this melancholy letter are the following verses, never before printed, which he wrote in answer to some lines received from a friend, exhorting him to be cheerful, and to “banish care.”  They will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, he reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come.

     “Newstead Abbey, October 11. 1811.

        “’Oh! banish care’—­such ever be
        The motto of thy revelry! 
        Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
        Renew those riotous delights,
        Wherewith the children of Despair
        Lull the lone heart, and ‘banish care.’ 
        But not in morn’s reflecting hour,
        When present, past, and future lower,
        When all I loved is changed or gone,
        Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
        Whose every thought—­but let them pass—­
        Thou know’st I am not what I was. 
        But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
        Place in a heart that ne’er was cold,
        By all the powers that men revere,
        By all unto thy bosom dear,
        Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
        Speak—­speak of any thing but love.

        “’Twere long to tell, and vain to hear
        The tale of one who scorns a tear;
        And there is little in that tale
        Which better bosoms would bewail. 
        But mine has suffer’d more than well
        ’Twould suit Philosophy to tell. 
        I’ve seen my bride another’s bride,—­
        Have seen her seated by his side,—­
        Have seen the infant which she bore,
        Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
        When she and I in youth have smiled
        As fond and faultless as her child;—­
        Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
        Ask if I felt no secret pain. 
        And I have acted well my part,
        And made my cheek belie my heart,
        Return’d the freezing glance she gave,
        Yet felt the while that woman’s slave;—­
        Have kiss’d, as if without design,
        The babe which ought to have been mine,
        And show’d, alas! in each caress
        Time had not made me love the less.