But turn the eye to life’s sequestered vale And lowly roofs remote in hamlets green. Oft in my boyhood where the moss-grown pale Fenced quiet graves, a female form was seen; Each eve she sought the melancholy ground, And lingering paused, and wistful looked around. If yet some footstep rustled through the grass, Timorous she shrunk, and watched the shadow pass; Then, when the spot lay lone amidst the gloom, Crept to one grave too humble for a tomb, There silent bowed her face above the dead, For, if in prayer, the prayer was inly said; Still as the moonbeam, paused her quiet shade, Still as the moonbeam, through the yews to fade. Whose dust thus hallowed by so fond a care? What the grave saith not, let the heart declare. On yonder green two orphan children played; By yonder rill two plighted lovers strayed; In yonder shrine two lives were blent in one, And joy-bells chimed beneath a summer sun. Poor was their lot, their bread in labour found; No parent blessed them, and no kindred owned; They smiled to hear the wise their choice condemn; They loved--they loved--and love was wealth to them! Hark--one short week--again the holy bell! Still shone the sun; but dirge like boomed the knell,-- The icy hand had severed breast from breast; Left life to toil, and summoned Death to rest. Full fifty years since then have passed away, Her cheek is furrowed, and her hair is gray. Yet, when she speaks of _him_ (the times are rare), Hear in her voice how youth still trembles there. The very name of that young life that died Still heaves the bosom, and recalls the bride. Lone o’er the widow’s hearth those years have fled, The daily toil still wins the daily bread; No books deck sorrow with fantastic dyes; Her fond romance her woman heart supplies; And, haply in the few still moments given, (Day’s taskwork done), to memory, death, and heaven, To that unuttered poem may belong Thoughts of such pathos as had beggared song. VIII. HENCE IN HOPE, MEMORY, AND PRAYER, ALL OF US ARE POETS. Yes, while thou hopest, music fills the air, While thou rememberest, life reclothes the clod; While thou canst feel the electric chain of prayer, Breathe but a thought, and be a soul with God! Let not these forms of matter bound thine eye. He who the vanishing point of Human things Lifts from the landscape, lost amidst the sky, Has found the Ideal which the poet sings, Has pierced the pall around the senses thrown, And is himself a poet, though unknown. IX. APPLICATION OF THE POEM TO THE TALE TO WHICH IT IS PREFIXED.--THE RHINE,--ITS IDEAL CHARACTER IN ITS HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY ASSOCIATIONS.