If Haydn’s presence had my love call’d forth, His absence, thus conjured, (could it do else?) call’d forth my worship. You remember, friend, Those heroes of old Rome appear’d not gods Till all were dead and veil’d from mortal eyes. And so with Haydn was it, and his world,— These never had appear’d so fill’d with light As when so far from me. The slightest hint Of home, that made me think this home was his, Made all things there as bright as heaven itself;— Yes, yes, though heaven so very bright must be!— For even here the past is bright; and there, Up there, we faith shall have, such perfect faith, That none can longer fear the future. No: As restful shall it seem as now the past; And then with all things bright, behind, before, Where could a place for gloom be? Even here, Could gloom be found if only men had faith? VIII. A year pass’d over me. Can I forget That wondrous April day that set me free? At first, as though I own’d no soul at all, I seem’d myself a part of that wide air, And all things else had souls. The very earth Beneath me seem’d alive! its pulse to throb Through every trembling bush! its lungs to heave Where soft-blown wind-sighs thrill’d the wooded hills! And then, this great life broke in many lives, All one through sympathy. In lieu of clouds, The gusty breeze caught up the fluttering lark And shook down showers of trills that made bare rocks More sweet than fount-spray’d flowers, while all the leaves Went buzzing on their boughs like swarming bees. Then reverence hush’d the whole; for, greeting me, Our dear church spire seem’d soon to mount the hill, Our home to reach around a slow-turn’d rock,— And all stood still with Haydn. Chill as ice, My hot cheek felt my sister’s kiss then, then my father’s, And then bewilder’d, as from out a dream, At last I woke. And what a dawn was that! As if the sun had drawn the earth to itself, I dwelt in central light; and heaven, high heaven— Could feel some rays, perhaps, was touch’d by them, At star-points in the sky, but own’d no more. IX. Doretta in the year had grown so fair That, in her first ripe flush of maidenhood, I did not wonder, while I watch’d his eyes, My Haydn’s eyes, that he could crave the fruit. And intimate they were. Right merrily Through all the house I heard their voices chime. But me our Haydn did not seem to know; So quiet was he, and reserved with me. Yet all my heart would flutter like a bird’s At his approach; and all my will fly off, And, as if poised in air and not in me, Leave half my words and ways without control, Until I seem’d as if I prized him not. X.