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Dim vales—and shadowy floods —
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be —
O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing —
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light —
And then, how deep !— 0, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
I Saw thee on thy bridal day —
Though happiness around thee lay,
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame —
As such it well may pass—
In the breast of him, alas I
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—
Of all to whom thine absence is the night—
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth—in Virtue — in Humanity—
Of all who, on Despair's unhallow'd bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy softmurmur'd words, " Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmur'd words that were fulfill'd
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—
Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember
The truest—the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him—
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
London :—Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.