1In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

2I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

3There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read it again, omitting the first book—that is to say, commencing with the second—we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we before condemned—that damnable which we had previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity:—and this is precisely the fact.

4In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again.

5That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered—there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime—but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound—but what else are we to infer from their continual plating about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes—by the effect it produces—than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

6On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.

7A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade—

8I arise from dreams of thee

9In the first sweet sleep of night,

10When the winds are breathing low,

11And the stars are shining bright.

12I arise from dreams of thee,

13And a spirit in my feet

14Has led me—who knows how? —

15To thy chamber-window, sweet!

16The wandering airs they faint

17On the dark the silent stream—

18The champak odors fail

19Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

20The nightingale’s complaint,

21It dies upon her heart,

22As I must die on shine,

23O, beloved as thou art!

24O, lift me from the grass!

25I die, I faint, I fail!

26Let thy love in kisses rain

27On my lips and eyelids pale.

28My cheek is cold and white, alas!

29My heart beats loud and fast:

30O, press it close to shine again,

31Where it will break at last.

32Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.

33One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which he has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the

34The shadows lay along Broadway,

35’Twas near the twilight-tide—

36And slowly there a lady fair

37Was walking in her pride.

38Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly,

39Walk’d spirits at her side.

40Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet,

41And Honor charm’d the air;

42And all astir looked kind on her,

43And called her good as fair—

44For all God ever gave to her

45She kept with chary care.

46She kept with care her beauties rare

47From lovers warm and true—

48For heart was cold to all but gold,

49And the rich came not to won,

50But honor’d well her charms to sell.

51If priests the selling do.

52Now walking there was one more fair—

53A slight girl, lily-pale;

54And she had unseen company

55To make the spirit quail—

56’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn,

57And nothing could avail.

58No mercy now can clear her brow

59From this world’s peace to pray

60For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,

61Her woman’s heart gave way! —

62But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven

63By man is cursed alway!

64In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other works of this author.

65While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and force:—but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem per se, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem’s sake.

66With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all that with which she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

67Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the offices of the trio marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms:—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.

68An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind—he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which through’ the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.

69The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic.

70The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very especially in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.

71To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.

72A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, or excitement of the soul, which we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of the sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion’ or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.

73I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:—

74The day is done, and the darkness

75Falls from the wings of Night,

76As a feather is wafted downward

77From an Eagle in his flight.

78I see the lights of the village

79Gleam through the rain and the mist,

80And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,

81That my soul cannot resist;

82A feeling of sadness and longing,

83That is not akin to pain,

84And resembles sorrow only

85As the mist resembles the rain.

86Come, read to me some poem,

87Some simple and heartfelt lay,

88That shall soothe this restless feeling,

89And banish the thoughts of day.

90Not from the grand old masters,

91Not from the bards sublime,

92Whose distant footsteps echo

93Through the corridors of Time.

94For, like strains of martial music,

95Their mighty thoughts suggest

96Life’s endless toil and endeavor;

97And to-night I long for rest.

98Read from some humbler poet,

99Whose songs gushed from his heart,

100As showers from the clouds of summer,

101Or tears from the eyelids start;

102Who through long days of labor,

103And nights devoid of ease,

104Still heard in his soul the music

105Of wonderful melodies.

106Such songs have power to quiet

107The restless pulse of care,

108And come like the benediction

109That follows after prayer.

110Then read from the treasured volume

111The poem of thy choice,

112And lend to the rhyme of the poet

113The beauty of thy voice.

114And the night shall be filled with music,

115And the cares that infest the day

116Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

117And as silently steal away.

118With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than—

119———————the bards sublime,

120Whose distant footsteps echo

121Down the corridors of Time.

122The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and especially for the ease of the general manner. This “ease” or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone—as a point of really difficult attainment. But not so:—a natural manner is difficult only to him who should never meddle with it—to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The author who, after the fashion of “The North American Review,” should be upon all occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily upon many occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

123Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—

124There, through the long, long summer hours,

125The golden light should lie,

126And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

127Stand in their beauty by.

128The oriole should build and tell

129His love-tale, close beside my cell;

130The idle butterfly

131Should rest him there, and there be heard

132The housewife-bee and humming bird.

133And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,

134Come, from the village sent,

135Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

136With fairy laughter blent?

137And what if, in the evening light,

138Betrothed lovers walk in sight

139Of my low monument?

140I would the lovely scene around

141Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

142I know, I know I should not see

143The season’s glorious show,

144Nor would its brightness shine for me;

145Nor its wild music flow;

146But if, around my place of sleep,

147The friends I love should come to weep,

148They might not haste to go.

149Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,

150Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

151These to their soften’d hearts should bear

152The thoughts of what has been,

153And speak of one who cannot share

154The gladness of the scene;

155Whose part in all the pomp that fills

156The circuit of the summer hills,

157Is—that his grave is green;

158And deeply would their hearts rejoice

159To hear again his living voice.

160The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,

161A feeling of sadness and longing

162That is not akin to pain,

163And resembles sorrow only

164As the mist resembles the rain.

165The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate Pinckney:—

166I fill this cup to one made up

167Of loveliness alone,

168A woman, of her gentle sex

169The seeming paragon;

170To whom the better elements

171And kindly stars have given

172A form so fair that, like the air,

173’Tis less of earth than heaven.

174Her every tone is music’s own,

175Like those of morning birds,

176And something more than melody

177Dwells ever in her words;

178The coinage of her heart are they,

179And from her lips each flows

180As one may see the burden’d bee

181Forth issue from the rose.

182Affections are as thoughts to her,

183The measures of her hours;

184Her feelings have the flagrancy,

185The freshness of young flowers;

186And lovely passions, changing oft,

187So fill her, she appears

188The image of themselves by turns,—

189The idol of past years!

190Of her bright face one glance will trace

191A picture on the brain,

192And of her voice in echoing hearts

193A sound must long remain;

194But memory, such as mine of her,

195So very much endears,

196When death is nigh my latest sigh

197Will not be life’s, but hers.

198I fill’d this cup to one made up

199Of loveliness alone,

200A woman, of her gentle sex

201The seeming paragon—

202Her health! and would on earth there stood,

203Some more of such a frame,

204That life might be all poetry,

205And weariness a name.

206It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

207It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his reward.

208Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether.

209Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

210Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer

211Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

212Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,

213And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

214Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same

215Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

216I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,

217I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

218Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

219And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—

220Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

221And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

222It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly—more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

223One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always for me an inexpressible charm:—

224O saw ye not fair Ines?

225She’s gone into the West,

226To dazzle when the sun is down,

227And rob the world of rest;

228She took our daylight with her,

229The smiles that we love best,

230With morning blushes on her cheek,

231And pearls upon her breast.

232O turn again, fair Ines,

233Before the fall of night,

234For fear the moon should shine alone,

235And stars unrivalltd bright;

236And blessed will the lover be

237That walks beneath their light,

238And breathes the love against thy cheek

239I dare not even write!

240Would I had been, fair Ines,

241That gallant cavalier,

242Who rode so gaily by thy side,

243And whisper’d thee so near!

244Were there no bonny dames at home

245Or no true lovers here,

246That he should cross the seas to win

247The dearest of the dear?

248I saw thee, lovely Ines,

249Descend along the shore,

250With bands of noble gentlemen,

251And banners waved before;

252And gentle youth and maidens gay,

253And snowy plumes they wore;

254It would have been a beauteous dream,

255If it had been no more!

256Alas, alas, fair Ines,

257She went away with song,

258With music waiting on her steps,

259And shootings of the throng;

260But some were sad and felt no mirth,

261But only Music’s wrong,

262In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

263To her you’ve loved so long.

264Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

265That vessel never bore

266So fair a lady on its deck,

267Nor danced so light before,—

268Alas for pleasure on the sea,

269And sorrow on the shorel

270The smile that blest one lover’s heart

271Has broken many more!

272“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written,—one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—

273One more Unfortunate,

274Weary of breath,

275Rashly importunate

276Gone to her death!

277Take her up tenderly,

278Lift her with care;—

279Fashion’d so slenderly,

280Young and so fair!

281Look at her garments

282Clinging like cerements;

283Whilst the wave constantly

284Drips from her clothing;

285Take her up instantly,

286Loving not loathing.

287Touch her not scornfully;

288Think of her mournfully,

289Gently and humanly;

290Not of the stains of her,

291All that remains of her

292Now is pure womanly.

293Make no deep scrutiny

294Into her mutiny

295Rash and undutiful;

296Past all dishonor,

297Death has left on her

298Only the beautiful.

299Where the lamps quiver

300So far in the river,

301With many a light

302From window and casement

303From garret to basement,

304She stood, with amazement,

305Houseless by night.

306The bleak wind of March

307Made her tremble and shiver,

308But not the dark arch,

309Or the black flowing river:

310Mad from life’s history,

311Glad to death’s mystery,

312Swift to be hurl’d—

313Anywhere, anywhere

314Out of the world!

315In she plunged boldly,

316No matter how coldly

317The rough river ran,—

318Over the brink of it,

319Picture it,—think of it,

320Dissolute Man!

321Lave in it, drink of it

322Then, if you can!

323Still, for all slips of hers,

324One of Eve’s family—

325Wipe those poor lips of hers

326Oozing so clammily,

327Loop up her tresses

328Escaped from the comb,

329Her fair auburn tresses;

330Whilst wonderment guesses

331Where was her home?

332Who was her father?

333Who was her mother?

334Had she a sister?

335Had she a brother?

336Or was there a dearer one

337Still, and a nearer one

338Yet, than all other?

339Alas! for the rarity

340Of Christian charity

341Under the sun!

342Oh! it was pitiful!

343Near a whole city full,

344Home she had none.

345Sisterly, brotherly,

346Fatherly, motherly,

347Feelings had changed:

348Love, by harsh evidence,

349Thrown from its eminence;

350Even God’s providence

351Seeming estranged.

352Take her up tenderly;

353Lift her with care;

354Fashion’d so slenderly,

355Young, and so fair!

356Ere her limbs frigidly

357Stiffen too rigidly,

358Decently,—kindly,—

359Smooth and compose them;

360And her eyes, close them,

361Staring so blindly!

362Dreadfully staring

363Through muddy impurity,

364As when with the daring

365Last look of despairing

366Fixed on futurity.

367Perhishing gloomily,

368Spurred by contumely,

369Cold inhumanity,

370Burning insanity,

371Into her rest,—

372Cross her hands humbly,

373As if praying dumbly,

374Over her breast!

375Owning her weakness,

376Her evil behavior,

377And leaving, with meekness,

378Her sins to her Saviour!

379The vigor 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.

380Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—

381Though the day of my destiny’s over,

382And the star of my fate bath declined

383Thy soft heart refused to discover

384The faults which so many could find;

385Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

386It shrunk not to share it with me,

387And the love which my spirit bath painted

388It never bath found but in thee.

389Then when nature around me is smiling,

390The last smile which answers to mine,

391I do not believe it beguiling,

392Because it reminds me of shine;

393And when winds are at war with the ocean,

394As the breasts I believed in with me,

395If their billows excite an emotion,

396It is that they bear me from thee.

397Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

398And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

399Though I feel that my soul is delivered

400To pain—it shall not be its slave.

401There is many a pang to pursue me:

402They may crush, but they shall not contemn—

403They may torture, but shall not subdue me—

404’Tis of thee that I think—not of them.

405Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

406Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

407Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

408Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—

409Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

410Though parted, it was not to fly,

411Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,

412Nor mute, that the world might belie.

413Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

414Nor the war of the many with one—

415If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

416’Twas folly not sooner to shun:

417And if dearly that error bath cost me,

418And more than I once could foresee,

419I have found that whatever it lost me,

420It could not deprive me of thee.

421From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,

422Thus much I at least may recall,

423It bath taught me that which I most cherished

424Deserved to be dearest of all:

425In the desert a fountain is springing,

426In the wide waste there still is a tree,

427And a bird in the solitude singing,

428Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

429Although 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.

430From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets, not because the impressions he produces are at all times the most profound—not because the poetical excitement which he induces is at all times the most intense—but because it is at all times the most ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:—

431Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

432Tears from the depth of some divine despair

433Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

434In looking on the happy Autumn fields,

435And thinking of the days that are no more.