When “in thy arms burd Helen fell,”
      She died, sad man, she died for thee,
        Nor could the films of death dispel
      Her loving eye’s sweet radiancy.

        Thou wert beloved, and she had loved,
      Till death alone the whole could tell,
        Death every shade of doubt removed,
      And steeped the star in its cold well.

        On some fond breast the parting soul
      Relies,—­earth has no more to give;
        Who wholly loves has known the whole,
      The wholly loved doth truly live.

        But some, sad outcasts from this prize,
      Wither down to a lonely grave,
        All hearts their hidden love despise,
      And leave them to the whelming wave.

        They heart to heart have never pressed,
      Nor hands in holy pledge have given,
        By father’s love were ne’er caressed,
      Nor in a mother’s eye saw heaven.

        A flowerless and fruitless tree,
      A dried up stream, a mateless bird,
        They live, yet never living be,
      They die, their music all unheard.

        I wish I were where Helen lies,
      For there I could not be alone;
        But now, when this dull body dies,
      The spirit still will make its moan.

        Love passed me by, nor touched my brow;
      Life would not yield one perfect boon;
        And all too late it calls me now,
      O all too late, and all too soon.

        If thou couldst the dark riddle read
      Which leaves this dart within my breast,
        Then might I think thou lov’st indeed,
      Then were the whole to thee confest.

        Father, they will not take me home,
      To the poor child no heart is free;
        In sleet and snow all night I roam;
      Father,—­was this decreed by thee?

        I will not try another door,
      To seek what I have never found;
        Now, till the very last is o’er,
      Upon the earth I’ll wander round.

        I will not hear the treacherous call
      That bids me stay and rest awhile,
        For I have found that, one and all,
      They seek me for a prey and spoil.

        They are not bad, I know it well;
      I know they know not what they do;
        They are the tools of the dread spell
      Which the lost lover must pursue.

        In temples sometimes she may rest,
      In lonely groves, away from men,
        There bend the head, by heats distrest,
      Nor be by blows awoke again.

        Nature is kind, and God is kind,
      And, if she had not had a heart,
        Only that great discerning mind,
      She might have acted well her part.

        But oh this thirst, that none can still,
      Save those unfounden waters free;
        The angel of my life should fill
      And soothe me to Eternity!