Where are they who gave the impulse To thy earliest thought and flow? Look around the ruined garden-- All are withered, dropped, or low! Seek the birth-place of the lily, Dearer to the boyish dream Than the golden cups of Eden, Floating on its slumbrous stream; Never more shalt thou behold her-- She, the noblest, fairest, best: She that rose in fullest beauty, Like a queen, above the rest. Only still I keep her image As a thought that cannot die; He who raised the shade of Helen Had no greater power than I. O! I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes, Warmly as ye did before! Bloom again, ye happy gardens, With the radiant tints of yore! Warble out in spray and thicket, All ye choristers unseen; Let the leafy woodland echo With an anthem to its queen! Lo! she cometh in her beauty, Stately with a Juno grace, Raven locks, Madonna-braided O'er her sweet and blushing face: Eyes of deepest violet, beaming With the love that knows not shame-- Lips, that thrill my inmost being With the utterance of a name. And I bend the knee before her, As a captive ought to bow,-- Pray thee, listen to my pleading, Sovereign of my soul art thou! O my dear and gentle lady, Let me show thee all my pain, Ere the words that late were prisoned Sink into my heart again. Love, they say, is very fearful Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error As the shadows scare the fawn. Love hath bound me to thee, lady, Since the well-remembered day When I first beheld thee coming In the light of lustrous May. Not a word I dared to utter-- More than he who, long ago, Saw the heavenly shapes descending Over Ida's slopes of snow: When a low and solemn music Floated through the listening grove, And the throstle's song was silenced, And the doling of the dove: When immortal beauty opened 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 Owned the magic of the spell; And I watched thee ever fondly, Watched 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 followed 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 answered back to mine, Ere my lips had power to thank thee For the gift vouchsafed by thine.