At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, After five summers spent in growing fair; Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. O! we are far too happy while they last; We have our good things first, and they cost naught; Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, And life is more than life; love more than love; We have not found the whole--and we must die-- And still the unclasped glory floats above. The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, For ever secret in their veil of light. Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, For Margaret is in her garden bower; Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: For one draws nearer to your ancient town, On the green mount down settled like a crown. He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, He met with one to whom he named the maid, Inquiring of her welfare and her state. And of the matron in whose house she stayed. "The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said; "But, for the ancient lady,--she was dead." He further said, she was but little known, Although reputed to be very fair, And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) But with her nurse at stated morning prayer; So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. Flow softly, rhymes--his hand is on the door; Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming-- "He went out rich, but he returneth poor;" And strong--now something bowed with suffering. And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call; Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall; "What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes! Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid-- Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." The noonday chime had ceased--she did not know Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered near: While, under the green boughs, in accents low She sang unto herself. She did not hear His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, And put her gentle hands about his neck; And leaned her fair cheek to his sun-burned face, As long ago upon the vessel's deck: As long ago she did in twilight deep, When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep.