[Makes passes over her, which shortly sink
her into a state of trance.

’Tis done! she’s free! and now this lovely frame
Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems
Now sparkle ’mid the opal lights of Heaven. 
This earth seems very lone and cold to me
Now she is absent, though a little space! 
My heart goes restless wandering around,
Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks,
Like one who, waking from some troubled dream,
Findeth his love soft stolen from his side,
And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze
All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[A pause.

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky? 
Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze? 
Flashing white pinions ’gainst the golden sun,
That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast? 
Art thou soft floating through the joys of Heaven,
With Earth far, far beneath thee, like a star
Struggling up through the tremulous sea of light,
That sucks its life down from the eye of day? 
About the gate of Heaven there floats my dove,
Fann’d by the breath of melodies divine;
Opes there no casement soft to take her in,
And lay her in the bosom of delight? 
O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven! 
Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide,
On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[A pause.

O wonderful!  Thou mansion tenantless,
Unswept by memory, untrod by thought,
Where all lies tranced in motionless repose;
No whisper stirring round the silent place,
No foot of guest across the startled halls,
No rustling robes about the corridors,
No voices floating on the waveless air,
No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams
On silver wings among the arched domes,—­
No swans upon the mere—­no golden prow,
Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure’s breeze,—­
No flapping sail before the idle wind,—­
No music pulsing out its great wild heart
In sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,—­
No lovers gliding down sun-chequer’d glades,
In dreams that open wide the Eden gate,
And waft them past the guardian Seraphim. 
Sleep over all the Present and the Past—­
The Future standing idle at the gate,
Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste
Bearing great tidings to some palace porch,
Findeth the place deserted.

[A noise without; enter in haste Father,
Maurice and Roger.

How now?—­Friends, you are welcome!

FATHER.

Where’s my child,
That you maltreat, most rash and guilty man?

ORAN.

Sir, you are over hasty in your words—­
Your child is here.—­

[Points to Mabel, who still lies entranced.

FATHER.

Mabel! wake, Mabel—­O my God! she’s dead!

MAURICE.

How!—­Dead!

ROGER.

Ay, murder’d!