The youth’s health was always delicate, which gave him a propensity to retirement, to books, and particularly to poetry. There was a characteristic taste, delicacy, and feeling, in his earliest productions, which will at this distant period stand the test of the severest criticism. Under the instructor above alluded to, he became a very good, if not a very profound scholar; and he went to the university with the greatest ardour for literary pursuits, still retaining his early prepossessions in favour of poetry. The bias which he took towards ancient English poetry, and the perseverance and zeal with which he pursued and cultivated a knowledge of the earliest English poets, probably arose from his introduction to Thomas Warton, whose History of English Poetry, and other productions in illustration of our ancient bards, were his great and constant favourites. With the feelings which this kind of reading inspired, aided by the delicate frame of his constitution, and the natural sensibility of his temper, he at this period wrote some beautiful pieces of poetry, which he was induced to print. They were soon disposed of, and were for a long time enumerated among the scarce tracts of our language, but they have since been reprinted. It was not at all likely that such exquisite susceptibility of mind and temper as characterized our friend, should be a long time without fixing on one individual object, to share his tenderness and sympathy. This accordingly happened, but “_hinc illæ lacrymæ_.” He surrendered himself a willing captive to the charms of a lovely and accomplished woman, of the same age and similar propensities with himself, and with respect to whom, there was but one thing wanted to secure to a union between them, as much of happiness as can be the lot of humanity. The attachment was supposed to be reciprocal; this is to appearance implied by the following fragment, written, as it should seem, on revision of some verses composed by the lady in question. The time was once when oft the long day through, Far, far too busy for my present peace, O’er these the pensive fablings of your muse I hung enamoured, whilst with anxious glance The kindred feelings of my youthful years In visionary view full glad I found, And blissful dreams familiar to my heart, O’er which sweet Hope her gilding pall had flung. Such, oh! such scenes, with Myra to have shared, Was all my fruitless prayers ere asked of Fate. ... Mischance stood by, and watched, and at an hour When least I thought her near, with hasty hand All my fair pictured hopes at once defaced. The lines which follow are much too beautiful to require any apology for insertion.