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Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before, -
Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore !
The smile that blest one lover's heart

Has broken many more! “ 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.” One more Unfortunate,

Loop up her tresses Weary of breath,

Escaped from the comb, Rashly importunate,

Her fair auburn tresses; Gone to her death!

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home? Take her

up tenderly, Lift her with care;

Who was her father ? Fashion’d so slenderly,

Who was her mother? Young, and so fair!

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother ? Look at her garments

Or was there a dearer one Clinging like cerements;

Still, and a nearer one
Whilst the wave constantly

Yet, than all other?
Drips from her clothing ;
Take her up instantly,

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity Loving, not loathing:

Under the sun ! Touch her not scornfully;

Oh! it was pitiful ! Think of her mournfully,

Near a whole city full, Gently and humanly;

Home she had none. Not of the stains of her,

Sisterly, brotherly, All that remains of her

Fatherly, motherly, Now, pure womanly.

Feelings had changed: Make no deep scrutiny

Love, by harsh evidence, Into her mutiny

Thrown from its eminence; Rash and undutiful;

Even God's providence Past all dishonor,

Seeming estranged. Death has left on her

Where the lamps quiver Only the beautiful.

So far in the river, Still, for all slips of hers,

With many a light One of Eve's family

From window and casement, Wipe those poor lips of hers

From garret to basement,
Oozing so clammily.

She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

a

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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!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,-kindiy,-
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 behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !

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 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, ’t was 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,

'T was 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 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 the 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 Princi-
ple. 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 pas-
sion which is the intoxication of the Heart—or of that Truth
which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For, in regard to Pas-
sion, alas ! its tendency is to degrade, rather than to elevate the
Soul. Love, on the contrary-Love-the true, the divine Eros-
the Uranian, as distinguished from the Dionæan Venus—is un-
questionably 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 de-
gree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony
inanifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct concep

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tion of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognises the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven-in the volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies-in the waving of the grain-fields-in the slanting of tall, Eastern trees-in the blue distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds--in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in the repose of sequestered lakes in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds-in the harp of Æolus—in the sighing of the night-wind-in the repining voice of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore---in the fresh breath of the woods-in the scent of the violet-in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odor that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts-in all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses-in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman-in the grace of her step-in the lustre of her eye-in the melody of her voice-in her soft laughter-in her sigh--in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments—in her burning enthusiasms -in her gentle charities—in her meek and devotional endurances —but above all-ah, far above all—he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty--of her love.

Let me conclude-by the recitation of yet another brief poem-one very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy, with the soul of the old cavalier.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,

And don your helmes amaine :
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call

Us to the field againe.
VOL. II.--2.

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