Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it; Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my
mind

By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.

XXVII.

SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind, -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss! That thought's return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

XXVIII.

I.

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did shroud,

Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;

But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

XXIX.

NOVEMBER, 1836.

II.

EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified

The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes

had seen

Thy countenance,—the still rapture of thy mien,When thou, dear Sister! wert become Death's

Bride:

No trace of pain or languor could abide

That change-age on thy brow was smoothed,—

thy cold,

Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold

A loveliness to living youth denied.

Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline,
The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn;
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine,
The bright assurance, visibly return:

And let my spirit in thy power divine

Rejoice, as, through that power,

it ceased to mourn.

XXX.

Ir is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder

everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

XXXI.

WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array;

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snows?

What boots the inquiry? — Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,

(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters,) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

XXXII.

WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road,

Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy

Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer :

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went she, and due north her journey took.

XXXIII.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

XXXIV.

A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,
On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay;
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay