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In secret, communing held—as he with it,

In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

Whose fervid, flick‘ring torch of life was lit

From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light—such for his spirit was fit—

And yet that spirit knew not—in the hour

Of its own fervor—what had o’er it power.

II

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o‘er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sov’reignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told—or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more,

That with a quick‘ning spell doth o’er us pass

As dew of the night-time, o‘er the summer grass?

III

Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye

To the lov’d object—so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be—that object—hid

From us in life—but common—which doth lie

Each hour before us—but then only, bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,

T’ awake us—’T is a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be—and giv’n

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heav’n

Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striv‘n,

Tho’ not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne

With desp’rate energy ’t hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

A Dream

In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed,

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,

So trembled from afar,

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth’s day-star?

“The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour”

The happiest day—the happiest hour

My sear’d and blighted heart hath known,

The highest hope of pride and power,

I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;

But they have vanish’d long, alas!

The visions of my youth have been—

But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?

Another brow may ev’n inherit

The venom thou hast pour’d on me—

Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day—the happiest hour

Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen,

The brightest glance of pride and power,

I feel—have been:

But were that hope of pride and power

Now offer’d, with the pain

Ev’n then I felt—that brightest hour

I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,

And as it flutter’d—fell

An essence—powerful to destroy

A soul that knew it well.

The Lake: To—

In spring of youth it was my lot

To haunt of the wide world a spot

The which I could not love the less—

So lovely was the loneliness

Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,

And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall

Upon that spot, as upon all,

And the mystic wind went by

Murmuring in melody,

Then—ah, then—I would awake

To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,

But a tremulous delight—

A feeling not the jewelled mine

Could teach or bribe me to define—

Nor Love—although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,

And in its gulf a fitting grave

For him who thence could solace bring

To his lone imagining,

Whose solitary soul could make

An Eden of that dim lake.

Sonnet—To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.

Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?

How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,

Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering

To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood

To seek a shelter in