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To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
What though the moon—the white moon—
I reach'd my home—my home no more —
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, though my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Father, I firmly do believe—
I know—for Death who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing through Eternity,— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path— Else how, when in the holy grove I wander'd of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt-offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven No mote may shun—no tiniest fly— The lightning of his eagle eye. How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?
TO THE RIVER
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty, the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter:
But when within thy wave she looks,
Which glistens then, and trembles, Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
Her image deeply lies—
Of her soul-searching eyes.
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
Are lips—and all thy melody
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the baubles that it may.
In visions of the dark night
I have dream'd of joy departed — But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
Turn'd back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, through storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
In Truth's day-star?