is noble soul, depressed by the insolence of his enemies and the
troubles of life, endeavored to escape the eyes of the world, or at
least of those who could not or would not understand him.

The noblest instincts of human nature shine so conspicuously in the
pages of this little volume, that we thank God that he created such a
noble mind, while we feel indignant toward those who could not
appreciate it. But to understand him better he must reveal himself, and
we shall therefore quote a few of his own sayings as a boy. His first
grief brought forth his first poem. A young cousin of his died, and of
her death he spoke to this effect in his memorandum:--

"My first recourse to poetry was due to my passion for my cousin
Margaret Parker. She was, without doubt, one of the most beautiful and
ethereal beings I ever knew. I have forgotten the lines, but never shall
I forget her. I was twelve years of age, and she was older than myself
by nearly a year. I loved her so passionately, that I could neither
sleep, nor get rest, or eat when thinking of her. She died of
consumption, and it was at Harrow that I heard both of her illness and
of her death."

Then it was that Byron wrote his first elegy, which he characterizes as
"very dull;" but it is interesting as his first poetical essay, and as
the first cry of pain uttered by a child who vents his grief in verse,
and reveals in it the goodness of his heart and the power of his great
mind. On a calm and dark night he goes to her tomb and strews it with
flowers; then, speaking of her virtues, exclaims:--

"But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

"And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah, no! far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

"Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face,
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place."

1802.

So beautiful a mind, and one so little understood, reveals itself more
and more in each poem of this first collection; and on this account,
rather than because of its poetical merits, are the "Hours of Idleness"
interesting to the psychological biographer of Byron. "Whoever," says
Sainte-Beuve, "has n