“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,
  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!