Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expentancy, and flew.
A 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
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 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, 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.
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
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 rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, of his tribe slumber'd around:
While many And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.
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, 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, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
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 That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As 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 reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been- But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 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?
A change came o'er the spirit of my The lady of his love;-Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls phrensy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.- The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd
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