LXIII.

SWEET Soul! do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost

With Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.'

And in that solace can I sing,

Till out of painful phases wrought

There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

Since we deserved the name of friends,
And thine effect so lives in me,

A part of mine may live in thee,
And move thee on to noble ends.

LXIV.

You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased.

The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind,

Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost;

Whose feet are guided thro' the land,

Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand :

He plays with threads, he beats his chair

For pastime, dreaming of the sky;

His inner day can never die,

His night of loss is always there.

LXV.

WHEN on my bed the moonlight falls,
I know that in thy place of rest

By that broad water of the west,
There comes a glory on the walls :

Thy marble bright in dark appears,
As slowly steals a silver flame

Along the letters of thy name,
And o'er the number of thy years.

The mystic glory swims away;

From off my bed the moonlight dies;

And closing eaves of wearied eyes

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray :

And then I know the mist is drawn

A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the chancel like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

LXVI.

WHEN in the down I sink my head,

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath;

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death,

Nor can I dream of thee as dead:

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn,

When all our path was fresh with dew,

And all the bugle breezes blew

Reveillée to the breaking morn.

But what is this? I turn about,

I find a trouble in thine eye
Which makes me sad I know not why,
Nor can my dream resolve the doubt :

But ere the lark hath left the lea

I wake, and I discern the truth ;
It is the trouble of my youth

That foolish sleep transfers to thee.

LXVII.

I DREAM'D there would be Spring no more,
That Nature's ancient power was lost:

The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter'd trifles at the door.

I wander'd from the noisy town,

I found a wood with thorny boughs:

I took the thorns to bind my brows,

I wore them like a civic crown.

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns

From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
They call'd me in the public squares

The fool that wears a crown of thorns.

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child :
I found an angel of the night:

The voice was low, the look was bright,
He look'd upon my crown and smiled: