XII.

Lo, as a dove when up she springs
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go; I cannot stay;

I leave this mortal ark behind,

A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,

And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,

And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying; Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care?'
And circle moaning in the air :
'Is this the end? Is this the end?'

And forward dart again, and play

About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn, That I have been an hour away.

XIII.

Tears of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and
feels

Her place is empty, fall like these;

Which weep a loss for ever new,

A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed,

Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weep the comrade of my choice,

An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,

A Spirit, not a breathing voic

Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream;

For now so strange do these things

seem,

Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;
My fancies time to rise on wing,

And glance about the approaching
sails,

As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,

And not the burthen that they bring.

XIV.

If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day,

And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port;

And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank,

And beckoning unto those they know;

And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;

And I should tell him all my pain,

And how my life had droop'd of late, And he should sorrow o'er my state And marvel what possess'd my brain;

And I perceived no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange.

XV.

To-night the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day :
The last red leaf is whirl'd away,

The rooks are blown about the skies;

291

292