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 brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity O! it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Even God's providence Seeming estranged. 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, In she plunged boldly, Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Dreadfully staring Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd 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. 564 THE DEATH BED WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, But when the morn came dim and sad 565 PAST AND PRESENT I REMEMBER, I remember He never came a wink too soon I remember, I remember I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh My spirit flew in feathers then And summer pools could hardly cool I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven 566 SIR AUBREY DE VERE [1788-1846] GLENGARIFF I GAZING from each low bulwark of this bridge, Above the cloven gorge gloomily towers: II A sun-burst on the Bay! Turn and behold! Minstrels have sung. From rock and headland proud The manifold mountain cones, now dark, now bright, Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich light To spectral shade; and each dissolving cloud Reveals new mountains while it floats away. 567 HARTLEY COLERIDGE [1796-1849] SHE IS NOT FAIR SHE is not fair to outward view Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold, Her very frowns are fairer far |