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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 60
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

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expentancy, and flew.

III.

À change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake ;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon

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He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion—then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90
She knew she was by him beloved,-she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken’d with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He 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,

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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.

IV. 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 10 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 reard them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 120

C'lad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around :
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.

V. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better :-in her home, A thousand leagues from his,—her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be ?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be ?—she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 141 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind--a spectre of the past.

VI.
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 150 That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and thenAs 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 reeld around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have beenBut the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 160 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?

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