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And the dread, like mist in sunshine,
Furled serenely from her mind.
“ Once my love, my love forever,
Flesh or spirit still the same; If I missed the hour of trysting,
Do not think my faith to blame, I, alas, was made a captive,
As from Holy Land I came.
“ On a green spot in the desert,
Gleaming like an emerald star, Where a palm-tree, in lone silence,
Yearning for its mate afar, Droops above a silver runnel,
Slender as a scimitar,
“ There thou'lt find the humble postern
To the castle of my foe;
Strike the gateway, green and low, Ask to enter, and the warder
Surely will not say thee no.” Slept again the aspen silence,
But her loneliness was o'er; Round her heart a motherly patience
Wrapt its arms for evermore; From her soul ebbed back the sorrow,
Leaving smooth the golden shore. Donned she now the pilgrim scallop,
Took the pilgrim staff in hand ; Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward,
Wandered she o’er sea and land ; And her footsteps in the desert
Fell like cool rain on the sand.
Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow,
Knelt she at the postern low;
Fearing much the warder's no;
As the door swung backward slow.
There she saw no surly warder
With an eye like bolt and bar; Through her soul a sense of music
Throbbed,—and, like a guardian Lar, On the threshold stood an angel,
Bright and silent as a star. Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs,
And her spirit, lily-wise, Blossomed when he turned upon her
The deep welcome of his eyes, Sending upward to that sunlight
Al its dew for sacrifice.
Then she heard voice come onward
Singing with a rapture new,
Dropping earthward with the dew;
Well the happy song she knew. Forward leaped she o'er the threshold,
Eager as a glancing surf;
Fell from her the body's scurf;-
Found a corpse upon the turf.
RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sun
shine, Among thy leaves that palpitate forever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of some tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb
While all the forest, witched with slumberous
up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse sus
pended, I hear afar thy whispering, gleamy islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung
Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,
ing Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy
Thou art to me like
beloved maiden, So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences ; Thy shadow scarce seems shade, thy pattering leaf
lets Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses, And Nature gives me all her summer confidences. Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, Thou sympathizest still; wild and unquiet, I fling me down; thy ripple, like a river, Flows valleyward, where calmness is, and by it My heart is floated down into the land of quiet.
AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES
I sat one evening in my room,
In that sweet hour of twilight When blended thoughts, half light, half gloom,
Throng through the spirit's skylight;
Or up the chimney crinkled,
And in the ashes tinkled.
I sat and mused; the fire burned low,
And, o'er my senses stealing, Crept something of the ruddy glow
That bloomed on wall and ceiling ; My pictures (they are very few,—
"The heads of ancient wise men) Smoothed down their knotted fronts, and grew
As rosy as excisemen.
Felt thrills through wood and leather,
'Mid Andalusian heather, The oak that made its sturdy frame
His happy arms stretched over The ox whose fortunate hide became
The bottom's polished cover. It came out in that famous bark
That brought our sires intrepid, Capacious as another ark
For furniture decrepit ;