The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint, The poplar tremble, like the heart of man, Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;— The beech shall spread his venerable shade, The stately elms’ procession guard his walks, The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ash Wave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep, And the wet alder shall delight to wade Knee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kine Take the whole meadow with contented eye, Philosophers of nature. One dark thought Alone can mar these visions;—he must die, And leave the dear possessions: in this land Where men are struck down in their hour of strength, That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies Before the excitement that his life affords— The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field. In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream: Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul, (For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter, Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place, And left him there alone;—there was no pain; But a sense that all was lost for evermore, That this was now, and worse might be to come, Made the stagnation misery; till, behold, The sad and silent years wore on;—at length His musing Spirit said within herself:— “Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour, Before the irrevocable change;—how great My power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone. Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leaves Blown to the shores of folly, where it grew; My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever, Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thought He strove to utter such a cry, as, heard Echoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell, Upon the confines of the orbed Earth, Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;— And with that cry he woke: the dawning day Saw him confused with horror; when it set, He was carousing to the lips in sin. Now was no hope! save that domestic joys Might give him pause, and win him from his sins— Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth, That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree, And threatened its destruction. There was one, (Although he dared not name her) who had been A cottage light, still seen, though far away, In the dark, stormy wilderness of life; Her love should win him yet;—for he had heard That she was still unwedded; and he knew Her woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance, Might still be true to that which he had been. VIII.