The prudent partner of his blood Leaned on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood.

And in their double love secure,
The little maiden walked demure,
Pacing with downward eyelids pure.

These three made unity so sweet,
My frozen heart began to beat,
Remembering its ancient heat.

I blest them, and they wandered on: I spoke, but answer came there none: The dull and bitter voice was gone.

A second voice was at mine ear,
A little whisper silver-clear,
A murmur," Be of better cheer."

As from some blissful neighborhood,

A notice faintly understood,

“I see the end, and know the good."

A little hint to solace woe,

A hint, a whisper breathing low, "I may not speak of what I know."

Like an Æolian harp that wakes

No certain air, but overtakes

Far thought with music that it makes :

Such seemed the whisper at my side:

"What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried.

"A hidden hope," the voice replied:

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour
From out my sullen heart a power
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower,

To feel, although no tongue can prove,
That every cloud, that spreads above
And veileth love, itself is love.

And forth into the fields I went,

And Nature's living motion lent
The pulse of hope to discontent.

I wondered at the bounteous hours,
The slow result of winter showers:
You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

I wondered, while I paced along:
The woods were filled so full with song,

There seemed no room for sense of wrong.

So variously seemed all things wrought, I marvelled how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought;

And wherefore rather I made choice
To commune with that barren voice,
Than him that said, "Rejoice! rejoice!"

THE DAY-DREAM.

PROLOGUE.

O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has past away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.

As by the lattice you reclined,

I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm,

The reflex of a legend past,

And loosely settled into form.

And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw,

So take the broidery-frame, and add

A crimson to the quaint Macaw,

And I will tell it. Turn your face,

Nor look with that too-earnest eye The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And ordered words asunder fly.

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ;

Here rests the sap within the leaf,

Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn.
The fountain to his place returns

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.