YRON TO H. C. R.

BRIGHTON, April 11, 1855.

'You appear to have more definite information respecting "The Review"
than I have obtained . . . It was also said that "The Review" would, in
fact, be "The Prospective" amplified,--not satisfactory to me, because I
have always thought that periodical too Unitarian, in the sense of
separating itself from other Christian churches, if not by a high wall,
at least by a wire-gauze fence. Now, separation is to me the [Greek
text]. The revelation through Nature never separates: it is the
revelation through the Book which separates. Whewell and Brewster would
have been one, had they not, I think, equally dimmed their lamps of
science when reading their Bibles. As long as we think a truth better
for being shut up in a text, we are not of the wide-world religion, which
is to include all in one fold: for that text will not be accepted by the
followers of other books, or students of the same; and separation will
ensue. The Christian Scripture should be dear to us, not as the charter
of a few, but of mankind; and to fashion it into cages is to deny its
ultimate objects. These thoughts hot, like the roll at breakfast, where
your letter was so welcome an addition.'

THREE DOMESTIC POEMS BY LORD BYRON.

FARE THEE WELL.

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again!

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh! yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay;
But, by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth;
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat
And the undying thought which paineth
Is--that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead:
Both shall