218 TWILIGHT.
When the cold grave shut o'er it. It hath left
Its image everywhere upon my books,
My bower of musing, and my page of thought,
And the lone altar of the secret soul.
Would that those lips had spoken ! yet I hear
Always their ring-dove murmuring, when I tread
Our wonted shady haunts.
Say, is there aught
Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead ? It cannot hide its face, it changeth not, Grieves not, suspects not, may not pass away ; For as a seal upon the melted heart Tis set for ever.
Sure, 'tis weak to mourn Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come Such angel-visitants at even-tide, Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch Pure and ethereal to sublimate The erring spirit.
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