THE PROSPECT. ETHINKS we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window-pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view: And thus, alas, since God the Maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, The life beyond us, and our souls in pain, Thy vision may be clear to watch along THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But there, The silver answer rang,-'Not Death, but Love.' Y own beloved, who hast lifted me From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own, In the upper life, -so I, with bosom-swell, thou must love me, let it be for nought 'I love her for her smile-her look-her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ;'— Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore S it indeed so? If I lay here dead, And would the sun for thee more coldly shine Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine But.. so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me-breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee! |