‘Many thanks, my dear Rogers, though I must own myself unworthy of ‘Childe Harold.’ It is written in a deadly spirit of scorn and hate which curdles the blood, and chills every kindly feeling, instead of cheering and promoting them. Two striking stanzas on solitude, marked by your discriminating pencil, and some vigorous poetry on Wellington’s battle, though with a cautious avoidance of his name or fame, and a wild and rich imagination nourishing a powerful and vigorous pen, do not compensate in my mind for the impression of disgust which I derive from the odious spirit of his writings.
