Turns what was once romantic to bur- Sighed to behold them of their hours bereft, lesque. Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing. Dammed from its fountain-the child Mixed in each other's arms, and heart in from the knee And breast maternal weaned at once for ever, heart, Would wither less than these two torn | Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; apart; A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air; Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 235 The mystical usurper of the mindO'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) Senseless to feel, and with sealed eyes to |