The true existence of a gifted soul Is like that prophet’s vision, and it seems A dread reality, to which his trance Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth When the young soul exulting presses on To chase the pleasures of its opening day. Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope, Wrought into beauty by the singing wind, Which bears them on its wing so joyously; While the glad revel of its morning song Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven. The strong day deepens, as the spirit speeds Along the crowded thoroughfares of life, But apprehension’s vague, dim, shadow flits O’er thought’s bright beauty; strange and fitfully Gray tints of doubt will mingle with the hues Of rainbow light, with which it used to paint The future’s glory—and the Right and Wrong Will struggle fiercely in the wavering heart, Like light and shadow ’mid the wreathing folds Of cloudy columns driven by the storm. It grovels with the herd of Mammon’s slaves, And drops of poisoned anguish from the heart Will start and thicken on the pallid brow. Deep disappointment, like the serpent’s fang, Strikes through the spirit sharply, and the cry Of midnight whirlwinds shrieking on the wold Is not so weird and fearful. Tempest-tossed, The soul must wander on its weary way, Till, from the caverns of its being, rent By strong fatality, a first, great love Bursts on its raptured vision, as of old A mighty angel rolled away the stone Which shrouded o’er the sepulchre of God, And clothed in living glory, as a robe, Came forth the Crucified! How soft at first The voiceless breathing of that atmosphere— How sweet the stillness where no breezes sigh Save that of Love’s impassioned oracle!