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!
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 fix’d on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, spurr’d 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!
Some persons may not regard this poem as a monologue. But if not rendered by a union of dramatic and lyric elements, it will be given, as it often is, as a kind of a stump speech to an audience on the banks of the Thames over the body of some poor, betrayed woman, who has ended her life in that murky stream.
It is true that we are little concerned with the character of the speaker, and the feeling is intensely lyric and universal. But the situation is so definite, and the “One more unfortunate” is so vividly portrayed to us, that it is, at least, partly dramatic. Even those who are caring for the body are directly addressed:
“Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care.”
It is a lyric monologue.
The sad, passionate outbursts can hardly be suggested by any other metre than that which is used by Hood, and we feel that its choice is singularly appropriate. The poem is intensely subjective. The conceptions regarding the life just closed arise through the natural association of ideas. The speaker thinks and feels definitely before us. The whirling circles suggested by the dactyl, with the occasional passionate break of a single accented word or syllable at the end of a line, assist the reader. Without such dactylic movement, the vocal expression of a pathos so intense would be hardly possible to the human voice.
Notice the two long syllables at the very beginning of the poem expressive of the stunned effect at the discovery of the body.
Render the poem printed as prose to avoid the sing-song of short lines, and note that in proportion to the depth of passion the metre becomes pronounced. It is impossible to read it in its proper spirit when not correctly rendering its metric rhythm.