Now softly dashing, Bubbling, plashing, Mazy, dreamy, Faint and streamy, Ripples into ripples melt, Not so strongly heard as felt; Now rapid and quick, While the heart beats thick, The music silver wavelets crowd, Distinct and clear, but never loud And now all solemnly and slow, In mild, deep tones they warble low, Like the glad song of angels, when They sang good will and peace to men; Now faintly heard and far, As if the spirit's ears Had caught the anthem of a star Chanting with his brother-spheres In the midnight dark and deep, When the body is asleep And wondrous shadows pour in streams From the twofold gate of dreams; Now onward roll the billows, swelling With a tempest-sound of might, As of voices doom foretelling To the silent ear of Night; And now a mingled ecstasy Of all sweet sounds it is;-- O! who may tell the agony Of rapture such as this? VI. I have drunk of the drink of immortals, I have drunk of the life-giving wine, And now I may pass the bright portals That open into a realm divine! I have drunk it through mine ears In the ecstasy of song, When mine eyes would fill with tears That its life were not more long; I have drunk it through mine eyes In beauty's every shape, And now around my soul it lies, No juice of earthly grape! Wings! wings are given to me, I can flutter, I can rise, Like a new life gushing through me Sweep the heavenly harmonies! SONG. O! I must look on that sweet face once more before I die; God grant that it may lighten up with joy when I draw nigh; God grant that she may look on me as kindly as she seems In the long night, the restless night, i' the sunny land of dreams! I hoped, I thought, she loved me once, and yet, I know not why, There is a coldness in her speech, and a coldness in her eye. Something that in another's look would not seem cold to me, And yet like ice I feel it chill the heart of memory. She does not come to greet me so frankly as she did, And in her utmost openness I feel there's something hid; She almost seems to shun me, as if she thought that I Might win her gentle heart again to feelings long gone by. I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best, And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spotless breast, The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone, She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me! As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the light, So to the memory of her I turn by day and night; As flowers in a darksome place grow thin and pale and wan, So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is gone.