“The mystic speech of nature; but it seemed As a strange language to them: Marble sealed Their lips were, to the founts that ’neath them gleamed, And their cold, icy eyes have half congealed The glowing tide that, in my heart, I felt Still struggling forth to bid those ice bonds melt. “Yet know I that man’s soul, born of the light Of heavenly mansions, still must be divine; Perhaps I have not learned its language right, Or found the key that opes its holiest shrine, And they may deem my soul hath lost the gem Whose kindling rays I vainly sought from them. “But there’s a hollow seeming in their mirth That chimes not with the joy my bosom feels; And the glad music of the teeming earth, From breasts that men call soulless, o’er me steals With more of sympathy than hath been given By those who claim the heritage of heaven. “Still hath my life led down a vale of Eden; Where mystic foot-prints marked the dewy sod; As if some angel’s steps had near me trodden, Bearing blest gifts from ’neath the throne of God; And low, sweet tones oft sooth me while I sleep, From the kind spirits that my vigils keep, “Like to the strain that now around me lingers, Roused, in my breast, from some long hidden string; While choirs of air-harps, swept by seraphs’ fingers, Upon my listening ear responsive ring— Lo! my eyes catch the flash of glancing wings, And half seen visions of all glorious things.” Half seen no longer—from the sky were rolled Its azure curtains, and a fragrant light Stole down, o’er glittering walks of gems and gold— The veil was lifted from her mortal sight, And one beside her stood, of air and mien Familiar, like the forms our dreams have seen. “Mine own I claim thee; thou at length hast heard And known the voice with which I wooed thee first, In life’s young morn. Though oft thy soul hath stirred, Echoing the strains that from my lyre have burst, Still too forgetful of the world of bliss, Thou didst but hear them as the tones of this. “Though thy young heart had found no answering tone To its o’erflowing gladness, knewest thou not That Heaven ne’er sends commissioned souls alone, To bear the darkness of their earthly lot, But each frail pilgrim of the thorny land, Moves earthward with its kindred hand in hand? “Through Eden’s vales we had together trod, And quaffed its streams, before the mandate came To rear us temples of this earthly clod, And win from dull mortality the claim To richer coronals; and with the flow Of mingled hearts we sought our homes below.