Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,
  Striving to utter with my earthly lips
  What the diviner soul had half divined,
  Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse
  Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined
  Sat He who fashioned glory.  This hath driven
  All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
  And humbled me, until I have forgiven
  My bitter enemies, and only seek
  To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.

  Yet I am weak—­oh! how entirely weak,
  For one who may not love nor suffer more! 
  Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
  And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
  Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,
  Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
  In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
  An Eden and a Paradise to me. 
  Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
  Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
  In search of odours from the orange bowers? 
  Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee
  Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers? 
  And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong
  ’Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
  Making the summer one perpetual song? 
  Art thou the same as when in manhood’s pride
  I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
  With that fair youthful vision by my side,
  In whose bright eyes I looked—­and not in vain? 
  O my adored angel!  O my bride! 
  Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,
  My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem
  To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,
  By the bright margin of that flowing stream. 
  I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet
  Than fancied music floating in a dream,
  Possess my being; from afar I greet
  The waving of thy garments in the glade,
  And the light rustling of thy fairy feet—­
  What time as one half eager, half afraid,
  Love’s burning secret faltered on my tongue,
  And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
  The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. 
  Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
  Gave up an angel beautiful and young,
  Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven: 
  A bright Aurora for the starry sphere
  Where all is love, and even life forgiven. 
  Bride of immortal beauty—­ever dear! 
  Dost thou await me in thy blest abode? 
  While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,
  And count each step along the rugged road;
  A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,
  And eager to lay down my weary load!

  I, who was fancy’s lord, am fancy’s slave. 
  Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell
  Ta’en from its coral bed beneath the wave,
  Which, unforgetful of the ocean’s swell,
  Retains within its mystic urn the hum
  Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell—­
  Old thoughts still haunt me—­unawares they come