II.  Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
            To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,
          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
            With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
          Hath ever told—­or is it of a thought
            The unembodied essence, and no more
          That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass
            As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass?

III.  Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
            To the loved object—­so the tear to the lid
          Will start, which lately slept in apathy? 
            And yet it need not be—­(that object) hid
          From us in life—­but common—­which doth lie
            Each hour before us—­but then only bid
          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
            T’ awake us—­’Tis a symbol and a token—­

IV.  Of what in other worlds shall be—­and given
            In beauty by our God, to those alone
          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
            Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,
          That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
            Though not with Faith—­with godliness—­whose throne
          With desperate energy ’t hath beaten down;
            Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

[Footnote 1:  Query “fervor"?—­Ed.]

* * * * *

A PAEAN.

I. How shall the burial rite be read? 
            The solemn song be sung? 
          The requiem for the loveliest dead,
            That ever died so young?

II.  Her friends are gazing on her,
            And on her gaudy bier,
          And weep!—­oh! to dishonor
            Dead beauty with a tear!

III.  They loved her for her wealth—­
           And they hated her for her pride—­
          But she grew in feeble health,
            And they love her—­that she died.

IV.  They tell me (while they speak
           Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
         That my voice is growing weak—­
           That I should not sing at all—­

V. Or that my tone should be
           Tun’d to such solemn song
         So mournfully—­so mournfully,
           That the dead may feel no wrong.

VI.  But she is gone above,
           With young Hope at her side,
         And I am drunk with love
           Of the dead, who is my bride.—­

VII.  Of the dead—­dead who lies
           All perfum’d there,
         With the death upon her eyes. 
           And the life upon her hair.

VIII.  Thus on the coffin loud and long
           I strike—­the murmur sent
         Through the gray chambers to my song,
           Shall be the accompaniment.