Vernal Ode

        Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam in minimis.
                                                    --PLIN. "Nat. Hist."

                                   I

          BENEATH the concave of an April sky,
          When all the fields with freshest green were dight,
          Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye
          That aids or supersedes our grosser sight,
          The form and rich habiliments of One
          Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun,
          When it reveals, in evening majesty,
          Features half lost amid their own pure light.
          Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air
          He hung,--then floated with angelic ease
          (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees)
          Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare,
          Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noontide breeze.
          Upon the apex of that lofty cone
          Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone;
          Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east
          Suddenly raised by some enchanter's power,
          Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower
          Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest
          Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower!

                                   II

          Beneath the shadow of his purple wings
          Rested a golden harp;--he touched the strings;
          And, after prelude of unearthly sound
          Poured through the echoing hills around,
          He sang--
                     "No wintry desolations,
          Scorching blight or noxious dew,
          Affect my native habitations;
          Buried in glory, far beyond the scope
          Of man's inquiring gaze, but to his hope
          Imaged, though faintly, in the hue
          Profound of night's ethereal blue;
          And in the aspect of each radiant orb;--
          Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb:
          But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye,
          Blended in absolute serenity,
          And free from semblance of decline;--
          Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour,
          Her darkness splendour gave, her silence power
          To testify of Love and Grace divine.

                                  III

          "What if those bright fires
          Shine subject to decay,
          Sons haply of extinguished sires,
          Themselves to lose their light, or pass away
          Like clouds before the wind,
          Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand bestows,
          Nightly, on human kind
          That vision of endurance and repose.
          --And though to every draught of vital breath
          Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or ocean,
          The melancholy gates of Death
          Respond with sympathetic motion;
          Though all that feeds on nether air,
          Howe'er magnificent or fair,
          Grows but to perish, and entrust
          Its ruins to their kindred dust;
          Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care,
          Her procreant vigils Nature keeps
          Amid the unfathomable deeps;
          And saves the peopled fields of earth
          From dread of emptiness or dearth.
          Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the sky
          The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty,
          The shadow-casting race of trees survive:
          Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive
          Sweet flowers;--what living eye hath viewed
          Their myriads?--endlessly renewed,
          Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray;
          Where'er the subtle waters stray;
          Wherever sportive breezes bend
          Their course, or genial showers descend!
          Mortals, rejoice! the very Angels quit
          Their mansions unsusceptible of change,
          Amid your pleasant bowers to sit,
          And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!"

                                   IV

          Oh, nursed at happy distance from the cares
          Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse!
          That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears,
          And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath,
          Prefer'st a garland culled from purple heath,
          Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews;
          Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me?
          And was it granted to the simple ear
          Of thy contented Votary
          Such melody to hear!
          'Him' rather suits it, side by side with thee,
          Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence,
          While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree,
          To lie and listen--till o'er-drowsed sense
          Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence--
          To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee.
          --A slender sound! yet hoary Time
          Doth to the 'Soul' exalt it with the chime
          Of all his years;--a company
          Of ages coming, ages gone;
          (Nations from before them sweeping,
          Regions in destruction steeping,)
          But every awful note in unison
          With that faint utterance, which tells
          Of treasure sucked from buds and bells,
          For the pure keeping of those waxen cells;
          Where She--a statist prudent to confer
          Upon the common weal; a warrior bold,
          Radiant all over with unburnished gold,
          And armed with living spear for mortal fight;
                    A cunning forager
          That spreads no waste; a social builder; one
          In whom all busy offices unite
          With all fine functions that afford delight--
          Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!

                                   V

          And is She brought within the power
          Of vision?--o'er this tempting flower
          Hovering until the petals stay
          Her flight, and take its voice away!--
          Observe each wing!--a tiny van!
          The structure of her laden thigh,
          How fragile! yet of ancestry
          Mysteriously remote and high;
          High as the imperial front of man;
          The roseate bloom on woman's cheek;
          The soaring eagle's curved beak;
          The white plumes of the floating swan;
          Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane
          Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain
          At which the desert trembles.--Humming Bee!
          Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown,
          The seeds of malice were not sown;
          All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free,
          And no pride blended with their dignity.
          --Tears had not broken from their source;
          Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean den;
          The golden years maintained a course
          Not undiversified though smooth and even;
          We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then,
          Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men;
          And earth and stars composed a universal heaven!
                                                              1817.

Ode To Lycoris. May 1817

                                   I

          AN age hath been when Earth was proud
          Of lustre too intense
          To be sustained; and Mortals bowed
          The front in self-defence.
          Who 'then', if Dian's crescent gleamed,
          Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed
          While on the wing the Urchin played,
          Could fearlessly approach the shade?
          --Enough for one soft vernal day,
          If I, a bard of ebbing time,
          And nurtured in a fickle clime,
          May haunt this horned bay;
          Whose amorous water multiplies
          The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes;
          And smooths her liquid breast--to show
          These swan-like specks of mountain snow,
          White as the pair that slid along the plains
          Of heaven, when Venus held the reins!

                                   II

          In youth we love the darksome lawn
          Brushed by the owlet's wing;
          Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,
          And Autumn to the Spring.
          Sad fancies do we then affect,
          In luxury of disrespect
          To our own prodigal excess
          Of too familiar happiness.
          Lycoris (if such name befit
          Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!)
          When Nature marks the year's decline,
          Be ours to welcome it;
          Pleased with the harvest hope that runs
          Before the path of milder suns;
          Pleased while the sylvan world displays
          Its ripeness to the feeding gaze;
          Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell
          Of the resplendent miracle.

                                   III

          But something whispers to my heart
          That, as we downward tend,
          Lycoris! life requires an 'art'
          To which our souls must bend;
          A skill--to balance and supply;
          And, ere the flowing fount be dry,
          As soon it must, a sense to sip,
          Or drink, with no fastidious lip.
          Then welcome, above all, the Guest
          Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea,
          Seem to recall the Deity
          Of youth into the breast:
          May pensive Autumn ne'er present
          A claim to her disparagement!
          While blossoms and the budding spray
          Inspire us in our own decay;
          Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,
          Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul!

To The Same

          ENOUGH of climbing toil!--Ambition treads
          Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
          Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
          As we for most uncertain recompence
          Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds,
          Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
          Induces, for its old familiar sights,
          Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
          With wonder mixed--that Man could e'er be tied,
          In anxious bondage, to such nice array                      10
          And formal fellowship of petty things!
          --Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life,
          Making a truth and beauty of her own;
          And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
          And gurgling rills, assist her in the work
          More efficaciously than realms outspread,
          As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze--
          Ocean and Earth contending for regard.
            The umbrageous woods are left--how far beneath!
          But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth             20
          Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed
          With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still
          And sultry air, depending motionless.
          Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered
          (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive)
          By stealthy influx of the timid day
          Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
          As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot,
          From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
          He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,                  30
          Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.
            Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave
          Protect us, there deciphering as we may
          Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth
          Interpreting; or counting for old Time
          His minutes, by reiterated drops,
          Audible tears, from some invisible source
          That deepens upon fancy--more and more
          Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth
          To awe the lightness of humanity:                           40
          Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
          There let me see thee sink into a mood
          Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
          Be calm as water when the winds are gone,
          And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!
          We two have known such happy hours together
          That, were power granted to replace them (fetched
          From out the pensive shadows where they lie)
          In the first warmth of their original sunshine,
          Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet                   50
          Are the domains of tender memory!
                                                              1817.

The Longest Day
Addressed To My Daughter

          LET us quit the leafy arbour,
          And the torrent murmuring by;
          For the sun is in his harbour,
          Weary of the open sky.

          Evening now unbinds the fetters
          Fashioned by the glowing light;
          All that breathe are thankful debtors
          To the harbinger of night.

          Yet by some grave thoughts attended
          Eve renews her calm career:                                 10
          For the day that now is ended,
          Is the longest of the year.

          Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
          On this platform, light and free;
          Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
          Are indifferent to thee!

          Who would check the happy feeling
          That inspires the linnet's song?
          Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
          On her pinions swift and strong?                            20

          Yet at this impressive season,
          Words which tenderness can speak
          From the truths of homely reason,
          Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

          And, while shades to shades succeeding
          Steal the landscape from the sight,
          I would urge this moral pleading,
          Last forerunner of "Good night!"

          SUMMER ebbs;--each day that follows
          Is a reflux from on high,                                   30
          Tending to the darksome hollows
          Where the frosts of winter lie.

          He who governs the creation,
          In his providence, assigned
          Such a gradual declination
          To the life of human kind.

          Yet we mark it not;--fruits redden,
          Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,
          And the heart is loth to deaden
          Hopes that she so long hath known.                          40

          Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!
          And when thy decline shall come,
          Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
          Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

          Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,
          Fix thine eyes upon the sea
          That absorbs time, space, and number;
          Look thou to Eternity!

          Follow thou the flowing river
          On whose breast are thither borne                           50
          All deceived, and each deceiver,
          Through the gates of night and morn;

          Through the year's successive portals;
          Through the bounds which many a star
          Marks, not mindless of frail mortals
          When his light returns from far.

          Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
          Toward the mighty gulf of things,
          And the mazy stream unravelled
          With thy best imaginings;                                   60

          Think, if thou on beauty leanest,
          Think how pitiful that stay,
          Did not virtue give the meanest
          Charms superior to decay.

          Duty, like a strict preceptor,
          Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
          Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
          While youth's roses are thy crown.

          Grasp it,--if thou shrink and tremble,
          Fairest damsel of the green,                                70
          Thou wilt lack the only symbol
          That proclaims a genuine queen;

          And ensures those palms of honour
          Which selected spirits wear,
          Bending low before the Donor,
          Lord of heaven's unchanging year!
                                                              1817.

Hint From The Mountains
For Certain Political Pretenders

          "WHO but hails the sight with pleasure
          When the wings of genius rise,
          Their ability to measure
              With great enterprise;
          But in man was ne'er such daring
          As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
          His brave spirit with the war in
              The stormy skies!

          "Mark him, how his power he uses,
          Lays it by, at will resumes!                                10
          Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
              Clouds and utter glooms!
          There, he wheels in downward mazes;
          Sunward now his flight he raises,
          Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
              With uninjured plumes!"--

                                 ANSWER

          "Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
          Which aloft thou dost discern;
          No bold 'bird' gone forth to forage
            'Mid the tempest stern;                                   20
          But such mockery as the nations
          See, when public perturbations
          Lift men from their native stations
              Like yon TUFT OF FERN;

          "Such it is; the aspiring creature
          Soaring on undaunted wing,
          (So you fancied) is by nature
              A dull helpless thing,
          Dry and withered, light and yellow;--
          'That' to be the tempest's fellow!                          30
          Wait--and you shall see how hollow
              Its endeavouring!"
                                                              1817.

The Pass Of Kirkstone

                                   I

          WITHIN the mind strong fancies work.
          A deep delight the bosom thrills
          Oft as I pass along the fork
          Of these fraternal hills:
          Where, save the rugged road, we find
          No appanage of human kind,
          Nor hint of man; if stone or rock
          Seem not his handywork to mock
          By something cognizably shaped;
          Mockery--or model roughly hewn,
          And left as if by earthquake strewn,
          Or from the Flood escaped:
          Altars for Druid service fit;
          (But where no fire was ever lit,
          Unless the glow-worm to the skies
          Thence offer nightly sacrifice)
          Wrinkled Egyptian monument;
          Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;
          Tents of a camp that never shall be razed--
          On which four thousand years have gazed!

                                   II

          Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes!
          Ye snow-white lambs that trip
          Imprisoned 'mid the formal props
          Of restless ownership!
          Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
          To feed the insatiate Prodigal!
          Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields,
          All that the fertile valley shields;
          Wages of folly--baits of crime,
          Of life's uneasy game the stake,
          Playthings that keep the eyes awake
          Of drowsy, dotard Time;--
          O care! O guilt!--O vales and plains,
          Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains,
          A Genius dwells, that can subdue
          At once all memory of You,--
          Most potent when mists veil the sky,
          Mists that distort and magnify;
          While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze,
          Sigh forth their ancient melodies!

                                  III

          List to those shriller notes!--'that' march
          Perchance was on the blast,
          When, through this Height's inverted arch,
          Rome's earliest legion passed!
          --They saw, adventurously impelled,
          And older eyes than theirs beheld,
          This block--and yon, whose church-like frame
          Gives to this savage Pass its name.
          Aspiring Road! that lov'st to hide
          Thy daring in a vapoury bourn,
          Not seldom may the hour return
          When thou shalt be my guide:
          And I (as all men may find cause,
          When life is at a weary pause,
          And they have panted up the hill
          Of duty with reluctant will)
          Be thankful, even though tired and faint,
          For the rich bounties of constraint;
          Whence oft invigorating transports flow
          That choice lacked courage to bestow!

                                   IV

          My Soul was grateful for delight
          That wore a threatening brow;
          A veil is lifted--can she slight
          The scene that opens now?
          Though habitation none appear,
          The greenness tells, man must be there;
          The shelter--that the perspective
          Is of the clime in which we live;
          Where Toil pursues his daily round;
          Where Pity sheds sweet tears--and Love,
          In woodbine bower or birchen grove,
          Inflicts his tender wound.
          --Who comes not hither ne'er shall know
          How beautiful the world below;
          Nor can he guess how lightly leaps
          The brook adown the rocky steeps.
          Farewell, thou desolate Domain!
          Hope, pointing to the cultured plain,
          Carols like a shepherd-boy;
          And who is she?--Can that be Joy!
          Who, with a sunbeam for her guide,
          Smoothly skims the meadows wide;
          While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,
          To hill and vale proclaims aloud,
          "Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare,
          Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, fair!"
                                                              1817.

Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots
On The Eve Of A New Year

                                   I

          SMILE of the Moon!--for so I name
          That silent greeting from above;
          A gentle flash of light that came
          From her whom drooping captives love;
          Or art thou of still higher birth?
          Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
          My torpor to reprove!

                                   II

          Bright boon of pitying Heaven!--alas,
          I may not trust thy placid cheer!
          Pondering that Time to-night will pass
          The threshold of another year;
          For years to me are sad and dull;
          My very moments are too full
          Of hopelessness and fear.

                                  III

          And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,
          That struck perchance the farthest cone
          Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
          To visit me, and me alone;
          Me, unapproached by any friend,
          Save those who to my sorrows lend
          Tears due unto their own.

                                   IV

          To-night the church-tower bells will ring
          Through these wild realms a festive peal;
          To the new year a welcoming;
          A tuneful offering for the weal
          Of happy millions lulled in sleep;
          While I am forced to watch and weep,
          By wounds that may not heal.

                                   V

          Born all too high, by wedlock raised
          Still higher--to be cast thus low!
          Would that mine eyes had never gazed
          On aught of more ambitious show
          Than the sweet flowerets of the fields
          --It is my royal state that yields
          This bitterness of woe.

                                   VI

          Yet how?--for I, if there be truth
          In the world's voice, was passing fair;
          And beauty, for confiding youth,
          Those shocks of passion can prepare
          That kill the bloom before its time;
          And blanch, without the owner's crime,
          The most resplendent hair.

                                  VII

          Unblest distinction! showered on me
          To bind a lingering life in chains:
          All that could quit my grasp, or flee,
          Is gone;--but not the subtle stains
          Fixed in the spirit; for even here
          Can I be proud that jealous fear
          Of what I was remains.

                                  VIII

          A Woman rules my prison's key;
          A sister Queen, against the bent
          Of law and holiest sympathy,
          Detains me, doubtful of the event;
          Great God, who feel'st for my distress,
          My thoughts are all that I possess,
          O keep them innocent!

                                   IX

          Farewell desire of human aid,
          Which abject mortals vainly court!
          By friends deceived, by foes betrayed,
          Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport;
          Nought but the world-redeeming Cross
          Is able to supply my loss,
          My burthen to support.

                                   X

          Hark! the death-note of the year
          Sounded by the castle-clock!
          From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear
          Stole forth, unsettled by the shock;
          But oft the woods renewed their green,
          Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen
          Reposed upon the block!
                                                              1817.

Sequel To The "Beggars," 1802
Composed Many Years After

          WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys?
          For whose free range the daedal earth
          Was filled with animated toys,
          And implements of frolic mirth;
          With tools for ready wit to guide;
          And ornaments of seemlier pride,
          More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;
          For what one moment flung aside,
          Another could repair;
          What good or evil have they seen                            10
          Since I their pastime witnessed here,
          Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
          I ask--but all is dark between!
            They met me in a genial hour,
          When universal nature breathed
          As with the breath of one sweet flower,--
          A time to overrule the power
          Of discontent, and check the birth
          Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,
          The most familiar bane of life                              20
          Since parting Innocence bequeathed
          Mortality to Earth!
          Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
          Sailed through the sky--the brooks ran clear;
          The lambs from rock to rock were bounding;
          With songs the budded groves resounding;
          And to my heart are still endeared
          The thoughts with which it then was cheered;
          The faith which saw that gladsome pair
          Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.                   30
          Or, if such faith must needs deceive--
          Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace,
          Associates in that eager chase;
          Ye, who within the blameless mind
          Your favourite seat of empire find--
          Kind Spirits! may we not believe
          That they, so happy and so fair
          Through your sweet influence, and the care
          Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
          From touch of 'deadly' injury?                              40
          Destined whate'er their earthly doom,
          For mercy and immortal bloom!
                                                              1817.

The Pilgrim's Dream
Or, The Star And The Glow-Worm

          A PILGRIM, when the summer day
          Had closed upon his weary way,
          A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
          But him the haughty Warder spurned;
          And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
          To seek such covert as the field
          Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
          Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

          He paced along; and, pensively,
          Halting beneath a shady tree,                               10
          Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,
          Fixed on a Star his upward eye;
          Then, from the tenant of the sky
          He turned, and watched with kindred look,
          A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,
          Apparent at his feet.

          The murmur of a neighbouring stream
          Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
          A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
          He recognised the earth-born Star,                          20
          And 'That' which glittered from afar;
          And (strange to witness!) from the frame
          Of the ethereal Orb, there came
          Intelligible sounds.

          Much did it taunt the humble Light
          That now, when day was fled, and night
          Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,
          A very reptile could presume
          To show her taper in the gloom,
          As if in rivalship with One                                 30
          Who sate a ruler on his throne
          Erected in the skies.

          "Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,
          "Abate this unbecoming pride,
          Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;
          Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
          Are mastered by the breathing haze;
          While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
          That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
          Hath power to injure mine.                                  40

          But not for this do I aspire
          To match the spark of local fire,
          That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
          With thy acknowledged glories;--No!
          Yet, thus upbraided, I may show
          What favours do attend me here,
          Till, like thyself, I disappear
          Before the purple dawn."

          When this in modest guise was said,
          Across the welkin seemed to spread                          50
          A boding sound--for aught but sleep unfit!
          Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;
          That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;
          And reeled with visionary stir
          In the blue depth, like Lucifer
          Cast headlong to the pit!

          Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor
          Of ancient ether was no more,
          New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:
          And all the happy Souls that rode                           60
          Transfigured through that fresh abode,
          Had heretofore, in humble trust,
          Shone meekly 'mid their native dust,
          The Glow-worms of the earth!

          This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
          Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
          Of Him who slept upon the open lea:
          Waking at morn he murmured not;
          And, till life's journey closed, the spot
          Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,                         70
          Where by that dream he had been cheered
          Beneath the shady tree.
                                                              1818.

Inscriptions
Supposed To Be Found In And Near A Hermit's Cell, 1818
I

          HOPES what are they?--Beads of morning
          Strung on slender blades of grass;
          Or a spider's web adorning
          In a strait and treacherous pass.

          What are fears but voices airy?
          Whispering harm where harm is not;
          And deluding the unwary
          Till the fatal bolt is shot!

          What is glory?--in the socket
          See how dying tapers fare!                                  10
          What is pride?--a whizzing rocket
          That would emulate a star.

          What is friendship?--do not trust her,
          Nor the vows which she has made;
          Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
          From a palsy-shaken head.

          What is truth?--a staff rejected;
          Duty?--an unwelcome clog;
          Joy?--a moon by fits reflected
          In a swamp or watery bog;                                   20

          Bright, as if through ether steering,
          To the Traveller's eye it shone:
          He hath hailed it re-appearing--
          And as quickly it is gone;

          Such is Joy--as quickly hidden,
          Or mis-shapen to the sight,
          And by sullen weeds forbidden
          To resume its native light.

          What is youth?--a dancing billow,
          (Winds behind, and rocks before!)                           30
          Age?--a drooping, tottering willow
          On a flat and lazy shore.

          What is peace?--when pain is over,
          And love ceases to rebel,
          Let the last faint sigh discover
          That precedes the passing knell!