Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
Which colour'd all his objects:—he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honour'd race.-It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why? Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved 70 Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
-oking afar if yet her lover's steed
ept pace with her expentancy, and flew.
change came o'er the spirit of my dream. ere was an ancient mansion, and before walls there was a steed caparison'd: ithin an antique Oratory stood
e Boy of whom I spake ;-he was alone, ad pale, and pacing to and fro; anon
e sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced -ords which I could not guess of; then he lean'd s bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere ith a convulsion-then arose again,
nd with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
hat he had written, but he shed no tears.
and he did calm himself, and fix his brow
to a kind of quiet: as he paused,
e Lady of his love re-enter'd there;
e was serene and smiling then, and yet
e knew she was by him beloved,—she knew,
r quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
as darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
at he was wretched, but she saw not all.
e rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
e took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my 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
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
ad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
hile many of his tribe slumber'd around:
nd they were canopied by the blue sky,
O cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
hat God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
he Lady of his love was wed with One
ho did not love her better:-in her home,
thousand leagues from his, her native home,
ne dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
aughters and sons of Beauty,-but behold!
pon her face there was the tint of grief,
ne settled shadow of an inward strife,
nd an unquiet drooping of the eye
s if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
That could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
and he who had so loved her was not there
o trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
hat could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
or given him cause to deem himself beloved,
or could he be a part of that which prey'd
pon her mind-a spectre of the past.
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
The Starlight of his Boyhood;-as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been―
But the old mansion, and the accustom❜d hall,
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?
|