XXVII.

SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind

But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

XXVIII.

.I.

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud—
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;

But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone

Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
“Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I mounted, as the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

XXIX.

NOVEMBER, 1836.

II.

EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified

The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen
Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy mien-
When thou, dear Sister! wert become Death's Bride :

No trace of pain or languor could abide

That change:-age on thy brow was smoothed-thy cold Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold

A loveliness to living youth denied.

Oh! if within me hope should ere decline,

The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn ;
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine,
The bright assurance, visibly return:

And let my spirit in that power divine

Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mourn.

XXX.

AIR sleeps,-from strife or stir the clouds are free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
But list! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear happy Girl! if thou appear
Heedless-untouched with awe or serious thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

XXXI.

WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!