Of happier men; for they, at least, Have _dreamed_ two human hearts might blend In one, and were through faith released From isolation without end Prolonged; nor knew, although not less Alone than thou, their loneliness. V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED. Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live _alone_. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour,-- Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain: Oh, might our marges meet again! Who ordered that their longing’s fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? Who renders vain their deep desire?-- A God, a God their severance ruled! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. VI. ABSENCE. In this fair stranger’s eyes of gray, Thine eyes, my love! I see. I shiver; for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life! that not A nobler, calmer train Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot Our passions from our brain; But each day brings its petty dust, Our soon-choked souls to fill; And we forget because we must, And not because we will. I struggle towards the light; and ye, Once-longed-for storms of love! If with the light ye cannot be, I bear that ye remove. I struggle towards the light; but oh, While yet the night is chill, Upon time’s barren, stormy flow, Stay with me, Marguerite, still! VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. (COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.) Ten years! and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream! and do I linger here? The clouds are on the Oberland, The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the churchyard fair; And ’neath the garden-walk it hums, The house! and is my Marguerite there Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry, _’Tis thou!_ Or hast thou long since wandered back, Daughter of France! to France, thy home; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come?