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A SPIRIT'S RETURN.
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Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd with the excess
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.
But, oh! sweet Friend! we dream not of love’s might
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light
The image we enshrine!—Before that hour,
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power
Within us laid!—then doth the spirit-flame
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame;
The wings of that which pants to follow fast
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blast,—
The sea is in our souls!
He died, he died,
On whom my lone devotedness was cast!
I might not keep one vigil by his side,
I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last!
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain,
A 2
