Till the wild prospect stands distinct and clear-- So the dark mind of our young poet grew 650 Clear and sedate; the dreadful mist withdrew; And he resembled that bleak wintry scene, Sad, though unclouded; dismal, though serene. At times he utter’d, “What a dream was mine! And what a prospect! glorious and divine! Oh! in that room, and on that night, to see These looks, that sweetness beaming all on me; That syren-flattery--and to send me then, Hope-raised and soften’d, to those heartless men; That dark-brow’d stern director, pleased to show 660 Knowledge of subjects I disdain’d to know; Cold and controlling--but ’tis gone, ’tis past; I had my trial, and have peace at last.” Now grew the youth resign’d; he bade adieu To all that hope, to all that fancy drew; His frame was languid, and the hectic heat Flush’d on his pallid face, and countless beat The quick’ning pulse, and faint the limbs that bore The slender form that soon would breathe no more. Then hope of holy kind the soul sustain’d, 670 And not a lingering thought of earth remain’d; Now Heaven had all, and he could smile at love, And the wild sallies of his youth reprove; Then could he dwell upon the tempting days, The proud aspiring thought, the partial praise; Victorious now, his worldly views were closed, And on the bed of death the youth reposed. The father grieved--but, as the poet’s heart Was all unfitted for his earthly part; As, he conceived, some other haughty fair 680 Would, had he lived, have led him to despair; As, with this fear, the silent grave shut out All feverish hope, and all tormenting doubt; While the strong faith the pious youth possess’d, His hope enlivening, gave his sorrows rest: Soothed by these thoughts, he felt a mournful joy For his aspiring and devoted boy. Meantime the news through various channels spread: The youth, once favour’d with such praise, was dead. “Emma,” the lady cried, “my words attend, 690 Your syren-smiles have kill’d your humble friend; The hope you raised can now delude no more, Nor charms, that once inspired, can now restore.” Faint was the flush of anger and of shame, That o’er the cheek of conscious beauty came. “You censure not,” said she, “the sun’s bright rays, When fools imprudent dare the dangerous gaze; And, should a stripling look till he were blind, You would not justly call the light unkind.-- But is he dead? and am I to suppose 700 The power of poison in such looks as those?” She spoke, and, pointing to the mirror, cast A pleased gay glance, and curtsied as she pass’d. My lord, to whom the poet’s fate was told, Was much affected, for a man so cold. “Dead!” said his lordship, “run distracted, mad!