There
      are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all
      in all _of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps,
      has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any
      other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

     Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer
     Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
     Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,
     And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same
     Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
     I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
     And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—
     Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
     And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too! It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
      granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than
      whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact
      is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
      faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
      naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there a
      greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
      profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than
      the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which
      are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
      remember them. One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most
      singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had
      always for me an inexpressible charm:—

     O saw ye not fair Ines? She’s gone into the West,
     To dazzle when the sun is down,
         And rob the world of rest;
     She took our daylight with her,
         The smiles that we love best,
     With morning blushes on her cheek,
         And pearls upon her breast. O turn again, fair Ines,
         Before the fall of night,
     For fear the moon should shine alone,
         And stars unrivalltd bright;
     And blessed will the lover be
         That walks beneath their light,
     And breathes the love against thy cheek
         I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines,
         That gallant cavalier,
     Who rode so gaily by thy side,
         And whisper’d thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home
         Or no true lovers here,
     That he should cross the seas to win
         The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines,
         Descend along the shore,
     With bands of noble gentlemen,
         And banners waved before;
     And gentle youth and maidens gay,
         And snowy plumes they wore;
     It would have been a beauteous dream,
         If it had been no more! Alas, alas, fair Ines,
         She went away with song,
     With music waiting on her steps,
         And shootings of the throng;
     But some were sad and felt no mirth,
         But only Music’s wrong,
     In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
         To her you’ve loved so long. 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 shorel
     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,
     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! Dreadfully staring
     Through muddy impurity,
     As when with the daring
     Last look of despairing
     Fixed on futurity. Perhishing 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.