Thither, one night of mist and moonlight, came The youth, with nothing deeper in his thoughts Than to behold beneath the silver flame New aspects of his fair and favorite spot; A single ray attained the ground, and shed Just light enough to guide the wanderer's tread. XXIX And high and hushed arose the stately trees, Yet shut within themselves, like dungeons, where Lay fettered all the secrets of the breeze; Silent, but not as slumbering, all things there Wore to the youth's aroused imagination An air of deep and solemn expectation. XXX "Hath Heaven," the youth exclaimed, "a sweeter spot, Or Earth another like it?--yet even here The old mystery dwells! and though I read it not, Here most I hope--it is, or seems so near; So many hints come to me, but, alas! I cannot grasp the shadows as they pass. XXXI "Here, from the very turf beneath me, I Catch, but just catch, I know not what faint sound, And darkly guess that from yon silent sky Float starry emanations to the ground; These ears are deaf, these human eyes are blind, I want a purer heart, a subtler mind. XXXII "Sometimes--could it be fancy?--I have felt The presence of a spirit who might speak; As down in lowly reverence I knelt, Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek; But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!" XXXIII Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark! A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark, Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods! Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams, And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams. XXXIV "Mortal!"--the word crept slowly round the place As if that wind had breathed it! From no star Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face. Again a hushing calm! while faint and far The breeze goes calling onward through the night. Dear God! what vision chains that wide-strained sight? XXXV Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow, That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below The breathless youth with beating heart beholds A mystic motion in its argent folds. XXXVI Yet his young soul is bold, and hope grows warm, As flashing through that cloud of shadowy crape, With sweep of robes, and then a gleaming arm, Slowly developing, at last took shape A face and form unutterably bright, That cast a golden glamour on the night. XXXVII