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it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture。 In place of it permit me
to offer the universally appreciated 〃Bridge of Sighs〃：
One more Unfortunate；
Weary of breath；
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death！
Take her up tenderly；
Lift her with care；
Fashion'd so slenderly；
Young and so fair！
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements；
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing；
Take her up instantly；
Loving not loathing。
Touch her not scornfully；
Think of her mournfully；
Gently and humanly；
Not of the stains of her；
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly。
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful；
Past all dishonor；
Death has left on her
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 hers；
One of Eve's 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；
Even God's providence
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。
Perhishing 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 behavior；
And leaving； with meekness；
Her sins to her Saviour！
The 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。
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 bath 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 bath painted
It never bath 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 shine；
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 painit 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 thinknot 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 bath 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 bath perished；
Thus much I at least may recall；
It bath 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 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 intensebut because it is at all times the most
etherealin 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〃：
Tears； idle tears； I know not what they mean；
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart； and gather to the eyes；
In looking on the happy Autumn fields；
And thinking of the days that are no more。
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail；
That brings our friends up from the underworld；
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge；
So sad； so fresh； the days that are no more。
Ah； sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half…awaken'd birds
To dying ears； when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square；
So sad； so strange； the days that are no more。
Dear as remember'd kisses after death；
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others； deep as love；
Deep as first love； and wild with all regret；
O Death in Life； the days that are no more。
Thus； although in a very cursory and imperfect manner； I have
endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle。 It has
been my purpose to suggest that； while this principle itself is strictly
and simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty； the manifestation of
the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul；
_quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart；
or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason。 For in regard to
passion； alas！ its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul。
Love； on the contraryLovethe true； the divine Erosthe Uranian as
distinguished from the Diona~an Venusis unquestionably the purest and
truest of all poetical themes。 And in regard to Truth； if； to be sure；
through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a harmony where
none was apparent before； we experience at once the true poetical effect；
but this effect is referable to the harmony alone； and not in the least
degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest。
We shall reach； however； more immediately a distinct conception of
what the true Poetry is； by mere reference to a few of the simple elements
which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the
ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
Heavenin the volutes of the flowerin the clustering of low
shrubberiesin the waving of the grain…fieldsin the slanting of tall
eastern trees in the blue distance of mountains in the grouping of
clouds in the twinkling of half…hidden brooksin the gleaming of silver
rivers in the repose of sequestered lakesin the star…mirroring depths
of lonely wells。 He perceives it in the songs of birdsin the harp of
Bolos in the sighing of the night…windin the repining voice of the
forest in the surf that complains to the shorein the fresh breath of
the woods in the scent of the violetin the voluptuous perfume of the
hyacinthin the suggestive odour that comes to him at eventide from far
distant undiscovered islands； over dim oceans； illimitable and unexplored。
He owns it in all noble thoughtsin all unworldly motivesin all holy
impulsesin all chivalrous； generous； and self…sacrificing deeds。 He
feels it in the beauty of womanin the grace of her stepin the lustre
of her eyein the melody of her voicein her soft laughter； in her
sighin the harmony of the rustling of her robes。 He deeply feels it in
her w