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Only the beautiful.

       Where the lamps quiver

       So far in the river,

       With many a light

       From window and casement

       From garret to basement,

       She stood, with amazement,

       Houseless by night

       The bleak wind of March

       Made her tremble and shiver,

       But not the dark arch,

       Or the black flowing river:

       Mad from life’s history,

       Glad to death’s mystery,

       Swift to be hurl’d-

       Anywhere, anywhere

       Out of the world!

       In she plunged boldly,

       No matter how coldly

       The rough river ran,-

       Over the brink of it,

       Picture it,- think of it,

       Dissolute Man!

       Lave in it, drink of it

       Then, if you can!

       Still, for all slips of her

       One of Eves family-

       Wipe those poor lips of hers

       Oozing so clammily,

       Loop up her tresses

       Escaped from the comb,

       Her fair auburn tresses;

       Whilst wonderment guesses

       Where was her home?

       Who was her father?

       Who was her mother?

       Had she a sister?

       Had she a brother?

       Or was there a dearer one

       Still, and a nearer one

       Yet, than all other?

       Alas! for the rarity

       Of Christian charity

       Under the sun!

       Oh! it was pitiful

       Near a whole city full,

       Home she had none.

       Sisterly, brotherly,

       Fatherly, motherly,

       Feelings had changed:

       Love, by harsh evidence,

       Thrown from its eminence,

       Seeming estranged.

       Take her up tenderly,

       Lift her with care;

       Fashion’d so slenderly,

       Young, and so fair!

       Ere her limbs frigidly

       Stiffen too rigidly,

       Decently,- kindly,-

       Smooth and compose them;

       And her eyes, close them,

       Staring so blindly!

       Dreadfully staring

       Through muddy impurity,

       As when with the daring

       Last look of despairing

       Fixed on futurity.

       Perishing gloomily,

       Spurred by contumely,

       Cold inhumanity,

       Burning insanity,

       Into her rest,-

       Cross her hands humbly,

       As if praying dumbly,

       Over her breast!

       Owning her weakness,

       Her evil behaviour,

       And leaving, with meekness,

       Her sins to her Saviour!

      The vigour of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem.

      Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—

      Though the day of my destiny’s over,

       And the star of my fate hath declined

       Thy soft heart refused to discover

       The faults which so many could find;

       Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

       It shrunk not to share it with me,

       And the love which my spirit hath painted

       It never hath found but in thee.

       Then when nature around me is smiling,

       The last smile which answers to mine,

       I do not believe it beguiling,

       Because it reminds me of thine,

       And when winds are at war with the ocean,

       As the breasts I believed in with me,

       If their billows excite an emotion,

       It is that they bear me from thee.

       Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

       And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

       Though I feel that my soul is delivered

       To pain- it shall not be its slave.

       There is many a pang to pursue me:

       They may crush, but they shall not contemn-

       They may torture, but shall not subdue me-

       ’Tis of thee that I think- not of them.

       Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

       Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

       Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

       Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,-

       Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

       Though parted, it was not to fly,

       Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,

       Nor mute, that the world might belie.

       Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

       Nor the war of the many with one-

       If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

       ’Twas folly not sooner to shun:

       And if dearly that error hath cost me,

       And more than I once could foresee,

       I have found that whatever it lost me,

       It could not deprive me of thee.

       From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,

       Thus much I at least may recall,

       It hath taught me that which I most cherished

       Deserved to be dearest of all:

       In the desert a fountain is springing,

       In the wide waste there still is a tree,

       And a bird in the solitude singing,

       Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

      Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the unwavering love of woman.

      From Alfred

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