Not a word I dared to utter—­
    More than he who, long ago,
  Saw the heavenly shapes descending
    Over Ida’s slopes of snow: 

  When a low and solemn music
    Floated through the listening grove,
  And the throstle’s song was silenced,
    And the doling of the dove: 

  When immortal beauty opened
    All its grace to mortal sight,
  And the awe of worship blended
    With the throbbing of delight.

  As the shepherd stood before them
    Trembling in the Phrygian dell,
  Even so my soul and being
    Owned the magic of the spell;

  And I watched thee ever fondly,
    Watched thee, dearest! from afar,
  With the mute and humble homage
    Of the Indian to a star.

  Thou wert still the Lady Flora
    In her morning garb of bloom;
  Where thou wert was light and glory,
    Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.

  So for many a day I followed
    For a long and weary while,
  Ere my heart rose up to bless thee
    For the yielding of a smile,—­

  Ere thy words were few and broken
    As they answered back to mine,
  Ere my lips had power to thank thee
    For the gift vouchsafed by thine.

  Then a mighty gush of passion
    Through my inmost being ran;
  Then my older life was ended,
    And a dearer course began.

  Dearer!—­O, I cannot tell thee
    What a load was swept away,
  What a world of doubt and darkness
    Faded in the dawning day!

  All my error, all my weakness,
    All my vain delusions fled: 
  Hope again revived, and gladness
    Waved its wings above my head.

  Like the wanderer of the desert,
    When, across the dreary sand,
  Breathes the perfume from the thickets
    Bordering on the promised land;

  When afar he sees the palm-trees
    Cresting o’er the lonely well,
  When he hears the pleasant tinkle
    Of the distant camel’s bell: 

  So a fresh and glad emotion
    Rose within my swelling breast,
  And I hurried swiftly onwards
    To the haven of my rest.

  Thou wert there with word and welcome,
    With thy smile so purely sweet;
  And I laid my heart before thee,
    Laid it, darling, at thy feet!—­

  O ye words that sound so hollow
    As I now recall your tone! 
  What are ye but empty echoes
    Of a passion crushed and gone?

  Wherefore should I seek to kindle
    Light, when all around is gloom? 
  Wherefore should I raise a phantom
    O’er the dark and silent tomb?

  Early wert thou taken, Mary! 
    In thy fair and glorious prime,
  Ere the bees had ceased to murmur
    Through the umbrage of the lime.

  Buds were blowing, waters flowing,
    Birds were singing on the tree,
  Every thing was bright and glowing,
    When the angels came for thee.