When immortal beauty open'd All its grace to mortal sight, And the awe of worship blended With the throbbing of delight. As the shepherd stood before them Trembling in the Phrygian dell, Even so my soul and being Own'd the magic of the spell; And I watch'd thee, ever fondly, Watch'd thee, dearest, from afar, With the mute and humble homage Of the Indian to a star. Thou wert still the Lady Flora In her morning garb of bloom; Where thou wert was light and glory, Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom. So for many a day I follow'd For a long and weary while, Ere my heart rose up to bless thee For the yielding of a smile,-- Ere thy words were few and broken As they answer'd back to mine, Ere my lips had power to thank thee For the gift vouchsafed by thine. Then a mighty gush of passion Through my inmost being ran; Then my older life was ended, And a dearer course began. Dearer!--O, I cannot tell thee What a load was swept away, What a world of doubt and darkness Faded in the dawning day! All my error, all my weakness, All my vain delusions fled: Hope again revived, and gladness Waved its wings above my head. Like the wanderer of the desert, When, across the dreary sand, Breathes the perfume from the thickets Bordering on the promised land; When afar he sees the palm-trees Cresting o'er the lonely well, When he hears the pleasant tinkle Of the distant camel's bell: So a fresh and glad emotion Rose within my swelling breast, And I hurried swiftly onwards To the haven of my rest. Thou wert there with word and welcome, With thy smile so purely sweet; And I laid my heart before thee, Laid it, darling, at thy feet!-- O ye words that sound so hollow As I now recall your tone! What are ye but empty echoes Of a passion crush'd and gone? Wherefore should I seek to kindle Light, when all around is gloom? Wherefore should I raise a phantom O'er the dark and silent tomb? Early wert thou taken, Mary! In thy fair and glorious prime, Ere the bees had ceased to murmur Through the umbrage of the lime. Buds were blowing, waters flowing, Birds were singing on the tree, Every thing was bright and glowing, When the angels came for thee. Death had laid aside his terror, And he found thee calm and mild, Lying in thy robes of whiteness, Like a pure and stainless child. Hardly had the mountain violet Spread its blossoms on the sod, Ere they laid the turf above thee, And thy spirit rose to God. Early wert thou taken, Mary! And I know 'tis vain to weep-- Tears of mine can never wake thee From thy sad and silent sleep.