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 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 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, ’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 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.