Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were! Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora, While the air like Elysium is smiling above, Steeped in rose-breathing odors, the darling of Flora Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love. So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss, The silver wave mirrored the smile of his face; Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss, And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase. Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world, As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs; As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurled, Swept his hope round the heaven on its limitless wings. Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein, That, kingly, exults in the storm of the brave; That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane, Strode he forth by the prince and the slave! Life like a spring day, serene and divine, In the star of the morning went by as a trance; His murmurs he drowned in the gold of the wine, And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance. Worlds lay concealed in the hopes of his youth!—     When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame! Fond father exult!—In the germs of his youth What harvests are destined for manhood and fame! Not to be was that manhood!—The death-bell is knelling, The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears—    How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling! Not to be was that manhood!—Flow on, bitter tears! Go, beloved, thy path to the sun, Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest; Go—quaff the delight which thy spirit has won, And escape from our grief in the Halls of the Blest. Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)     To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!—    Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound, And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead. And we cling to each other!—O Grave, he is thine! The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears—    And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,     Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears. Pale at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon! The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs:     The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres. The dull clods swell into the sullen mound; Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave! The grave locks up the treasure it has found; Higher and higher swells the sullen mound—     Never gives back the grave! 

           FANTASIE—TO LAURA. Name, my Laura, name the whirl-compelling Bodies to unite in one blest whole—    Name, 

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