peared in his Letters and Journals. The Quarterly Review for January, 1831, declares of this poem that there is, perhaps, nothing more mournfully and desolately beautiful in the whole range of Lord Byron's poetry.' Certainly there is no single short poem which throws more light on the poet's genius and character.] My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the Gazing the one on all that was beneath As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 50 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts A change came o'er the spirit of dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand Before an Altar with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made Not that which was, nor that which should have been But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 160 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time? VII my A change came o'er the spirit of dream. The Lady of his love;-Oh! she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes 170 They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become |