ORAN.

Tell me, my Mabel, if within this sleep,
To which mine art oft leads thee, there should come
Some angel bright with Heaven’s reflected light,
Wooing thee upward with the songs of bliss,—­
Tell me, my Mabel, wouldst thou freely go,
Leaving this fair earth-vesture only here,
Leaving me lornly gazing on the sky,
Blotting its sun out with my blinding tears?

MABEL.

There is no angel but the angel Death
Could sever me from thee who art all my life! 
What Heaven is there but that which Love creates? 
What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned? 
Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day,
That dies out with its setting utterly—­
Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring,
That keeps the fountain of my being full—­
Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse
The joyous moments of my flowing life—­
Leave thee?  How canst thou wrong me with the thought?

ORAN.

Dear Mabel!—­Yet to-day thy brothers came,
Taxing me harshly, and in cruel terms,
With practising against thy precious life.

MABEL.

Oh, Heaven!

ORAN.

They dread these trances, whose dim fame
Hath floated on the ignorant air to them. 
They deem this priceless power, new-fall’n on me,
And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved,
A most pernicious art, that may, perchance,
Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear? 
My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me? 
Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand,
Wherewith they deem that I am dower’d withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith—­
Am I not as the floating gossamer,
Steering through ether on thy guiding breath? 
Am I not as the clay within thy hand,
Taking the shape and image of thy thought? 
Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts
In erring love against thy watchful care. 
That which thou doest I accept with joy;
I wait for thee as waits a full-sail’d bark
The coming breeze to waft it o’er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not!  I do well think no peril lies
Within this power, but virtue of rare worth,
Else nevermore its wand had waved o’er thee.—­
Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth
Of all these glorious wanderings above? 
No certain visions of the hidden things
Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft,
The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth’s gate,
And all the blinding glories it hath known
Shed but their mystic influence over life. 
Therefore, it may be, ’tis I nought retain
Of that which passeth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams, Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.—­ Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile In Heaven’s own sunshine;—­yet forget not me!