These ghostly vapours, brooding low,
Shall melt to sunny glories o’er my head,
  And through them shall the golden city glow,
Whither I hasten singing, angel-led;
  Friend! there is but a cloud-veil ’twixt us and the light,
  One step beyond, and Heaven is in our sight.

  Now the stream laps my vesture hem;
Back thou from my sad bosom to the world,
  Leaving me here this current cold to stem;
Soon from thy sight shall I be swiftly whirl’d
  Into the mystic darkness—­never fear! 
  God’s hand shall guide me unto vision clear.

  Already thou art growing dim,
And distant on the fast receding shore;
  The tide is strong, but still I trust in Him,
And know that I shall safely struggle o’er,
  For now the plash on yonder shore I hear,
  Amid sweet angel voices calm and clear.

WYTHAM WOODS.

’Mid the waving Woods of Wytham,
  Now so far, so far from me,
  Where the grand old beeches be,
And the deer-herds feeding by them: 
’Mid the mossy Woods of Wytham,
  Oft I roam in memory;

Down the grand wide-arching alleys,
  Marged by plumy ferns and flowers,
  Whence all through the noontide hours
Many a fearless leveret sallies;
For amid those grassy alleys
  Never hound nor huntsman scours.

Still I see, through leafy casements,
  Wytham Hall so quaint and old,
  Remnant of the age of gold,
Gabled o’er from roof to basement
In most fanciful enlacement,
  Looking far o’er wood and wold;

With the mere outspread before it;
  Whitest swans upon its tide,
  That in mystic beauty glide;
And the wild fowl flapping o’er it,
To the reeds that broadly shore it,
  Spear-like, on the sunny side.

Through the waving Woods of Wytham,
  Now so far, so far from me,
  Where I roam in memory;
’Mid the leaves, or flashing by them,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
  On my sunless heart gleams she.

Falling like the dreams of summer,
  Making holy all the place,
  Visions of that sweet pale face,
Sweeter than all dreams of summer,
Dearer than all dreams of summer,
  Still in bower and glade I trace!

Still her eyes come deeply glowing
  Through the leafy lattices;
  And the rustle of the trees,
’Neath the west wind softly blowing,
Only emulates the flowing
  Of her love-toned melodies.

Oh! those waving Woods of Wytham—­
  Ceased she thus to hover near
  Radiant from her happy sphere,
Like sunshine to glorify them,
Never would I wander nigh them—­
Madly weeping should I fly them,
  Till their memory e’en grew sere.

But ah! no, in endless slimmer,
  Roams my heart through Wytham Woods,
  Meeting in their solitudes
Evermore that angel comer,
Sweeter than the light of summer
  Making golden Wytham Woods,
Now so far, so far from me
In the world of Memory.