TO THE IDEAL.

  Then wilt thou, with thy fancies holy—­
    Wilt thou, faithless, fly from me? 
  With thy joy, thy melancholy,
    Wilt thou thus relentless flee? 
  O Golden Time, O Human May,
    Can nothing, Fleet One, thee restrain? 
  Must thy sweet river glide away
    Into the eternal Ocean-Main?

  The suns serene are lost and vanish’d
    That wont the path of youth to gild,
  And all the fair Ideals banish’d
    From that wild heart they whilome fill’d. 
  Gone the divine and sweet believing
    In dreams which Heaven itself unfurl’d! 
  What godlike shapes have years bereaving
    Swept from this real work-day world!

  As once, with tearful passion fired,
    The Cyprian Sculptor clasp’d the stone,
  Till the cold cheeks, delight-inspired,
    Blush’d—­to sweet life the marble grown;
  So Youth’s desire for Nature!—­round
    The Statue, so my arms I wreathed,
  Till warmth and life in mine it found
    And breath that poets breathe—­it breathed.

  With my own burning thoughts it burn’d;—­
    Its silence stirr’d to speech divine;—­
  Its lips my glowing kiss return’d;—­
    Its heart in beating answer’d mine! 
  How fair was then the flower—­the tree!—­
    How silver-sweet the fountain’s fall! 
  The soulless had a soul to me! 
    My life its own life lent to all!

  The Universe of Things seem’d swelling
    The panting heart to burst its bound,
  And wandering Fancy found a dwelling
    In every shape—­thought—­deed, and sound. 
  Germ’d in the mystic buds, reposing,
    A whole creation slumber’d mute,
  Alas, when from the buds unclosing,
    How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!

  How happy in his dreaming error,
    His own gay valour for his wing,
  Of not one care as yet in terror,
    Did Youth upon his journey spring;
  Till floods of balm, through air’s dominion,
    Bore upward to the faintest star—­
  For never aught to that bright pinion
    Could dwell too high, or spread too far.

  Though laden with delight, how lightly
    The wanderer heavenward still could soar,
  And aye the ways of life how brightly
    The airy Pageant danced before!—­
  Love, showering gifts (life’s sweetest) down,
    Fortune, with golden garlands gay,
  And Fame, with starbeams for a crown,
    And Truth, whose dwelling is the Day.

  Ah! midway soon, lost evermore,
    Afar the blithe companions stray;
  In vain their faithless steps explore,
    As, one by one, they glide away. 
  Fleet Fortune was the first escaper—­
    The thirst for wisdom linger’d yet;
  But doubts with many a gloomy vapour
    The sun-shape of the Truth beset!