But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way, without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart and lone, and blighted—
More than this, I scarce can die.”
I should have felt warranted in giving some intelligible account of the poet’s infelicities at home were it only to lead up to this exhibit of his wondrous literary skill; but I find still stronger reasons in the fact that the hue and cry which followed upon his separation from his wife seemed to exalt the man to an insolent bravado, and a challenge of all restraint—under which his genius flamed up with new power, and with a blighting splendor.
Exile.
It was on the 25th of April, 1816 (he being then in his twenty-eighth year), that he bade England adieu forever, and among the tenderest of his leave-takings was that from his sister, who had vainly sought to make smooth the difficulties in his home, and who (until Lady Byron had fallen into the blindness of dotage) retained her utmost respect. I cannot forbear quoting two verses from a poem addressed to this devoted sister:
“Though the rock of my last hope is shivered