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 crushed 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. O away! my thoughts are earthward! Not asleep, my love, art thou! Dwelling in the land of glory With the saints and angels now. Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again, By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies, When the dawn of resurrection Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. THE OLD CAMP WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA I. There is a cloud before the sun, The wind is hushed and still, And silently the waters run Beneath the sombre hill. The sky is dark in every place, As is the earth below: Methinks it wore the self-same face Two thousand years ago. II. No light is on the ancient wall, No light upon the mound; The very trees, so thick and tall, Cast gloom, not shade, around. So silent is the place and cold, So far from human ken, It hath a look that makes me old, And spectres time again. III.