The sea-born strength of the stream is spent, And Romara's boat outstrips its speed,-- For his stalwart arm to the oar is bent, And swiftly the ebbing waves recede. Divinely streaketh the morning-star With a wavy light the rippling waters; And the moon looks on from the west, afar, And palely smiles, with her waning daughters, The thin-strown stars, which their vigil keep Till the orient sun shall awake from sleep. The sun hath awoke; and in garments of gold The turrets of Torksey are livingly rolled; Afar, on Trent's margin, the flowery lea Exhales her dewy fragrancy; And gaily carols the matin lark, As the warrior hastes to moor his bark. Two menials hastened to the beach, For signal none need they; On the towers they kept a heedful watch As the skiff glode on its way: With silent step and breathless care The rescued one they softly bear, And bring him, at their lord's behest, To a couch of silken pillowed rest. The serfs could scarce avert their eye From his manly form and mien, As, with closëd lids, all reverendly, He lay in peace, serene. And Romara thought, as he gazing leant O'er the slumberer's form, that so pure a trace Of the spirit of Heaven with the earthly blent Dwelt only there, and in Agnes' face. The leech comes forth at the hour of noon, And saith, that the sick from his deathly swoon Will awake anon; and Romara's eye, Uplit, betokens his heartfelt joy; And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose,-- When, long, with heavenward-fixëd gaze, With lowly prayer and grateful praise, The aged man, from death reprieved, His bosom of its joy relieved.-- Then did Romara thus address His gray guest, in his reverendness: "Now, man of prayer come tell to me Some spell of thy holy mystery! Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright,-- Or message, conveyed from the world of light, By the angels of love who in purity stand 'Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land? "I hope, when I die, to see them there: For I love the angels so holy and fair: And often, I trust, my prayer they greet With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave, But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave. "Sage man of prayer, come tell to me What holy shapes in sleep they see Who love the blest saints and serve them well! I pray thee, sage man, to Romara tell, For a guerdon, thy dreams,--sith, to me thou hast said No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead." But, when the aged man arose And met Romara's wistful eye,-- What accents shall the change disclose That marked his visage, fearfully?-- From joy to grief and deepest dole, From radiant hope to dark presage Of future ills beyond control-- Hath passed, the visage of the sage.