tale Of humble comfort, where its inmates, sure In hope, feel grateful in their lowly place. And here My Lady’s lighted oriel shines A giant glowworm in the odorous gloom. Ah, stands she smiling there in loose white gown, Hearing the music of her future drown The stillness and hushed whispering of the vines, Whose lattice-clasping leaves o’ershade her room! p. 48Or kneels she worshipful beside her bed In large-eyed hope and bended lowliness, To crave that He, the Giver, may impart Enough of strength to bind her trembling heart Steadfast and true; and that her will be led To own His chastening cares pain but to bless? p. 48 Or sits she at her mirror, face to face With her own loveliness? (O blessed land That owns such twin perfections both together; If guessed aright!) Ah, me; I wonder whether She now her braided opulent hair unlace And drop it billowing from her moonwhite hand! Then what a fount of wealth to lover’s sight! Her loosened hair, I heard her mother say, When she is seated, tumbles to the floor And trails the length of her own foot and more: And dare I, lapt in bliss, dream my delight Ere long shall watch its rippling softness play? p. 49Dare I, O vanity! but do I dare Think she now looks upon the sorry rhyme I wrote long ere that well-loved setting sun, What time love conquering dread My Lady won, While I unblessed, adored in mute despair:— Even now I gave it her at parting time. p. 49 “O let me, Dearest, fall and once impart My grieving love to ease this stricken heart; But once, O Love, to fall and rest This wearied head of mine, But once to weep in thine Unutterably tender breast; And on my drooping lids feel thy young breath; To feel it playing sweeter were than death. “Than death were sweet to one bent down and old, And worn with persecutions manifold; Whose stoutness long endured alone The charge of bitter foes, p. 50Till, furious, he rose, When smitten, all were overthrown. Who then of those, his dearest, none could find, They having fled as leaves before the wind. p. 50 “As he would pass, when to his failing sight Their forms stand in a vision heavenly bright; And piercing through his drowsed ears Enters their tuneful cry Of summons, audibly, Thither where flow no mourners’ tears: So, dearest Love, my spirit, sore oppressed, Would weeping in thy bosom
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