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.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324