In this neglected, ruin'd edifice Of works unperfected and broken schemes, Where is the promise of my early dreams, The smile of beauty and the pearl of price? No charm is left now that could once entice Wind-wavering fortune from her golden streams, And full in flight decrepit purpose seems, Trailing the banner of his old device. Within the house a frore and numbing air Has chill'd endeavour: sickly memories reign In every room, and ghosts are on the stair: And hope behind the dusty window-pane Watches the days go by, and bow'd with care Forecasts her last reproach and mortal stain. 46 Once I would say, before thy vision came, _My joy_, _my life_, _my love_, and with some kind Of knowledge speak, and think I knew my mind Of heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim. Whate'er their sounds be, now all mean the same, Denoting each the fair that none can find; Or if I say them, 'tis as one long blind Forgets the sights that he was used to name. Now if men speak of love, 'tis not my love; Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their life Of praise the life that I think honour of: Nay tho' they turn from house and child and wife And self, and in the thought of heaven above Hold, as do I, all mortal things at strife. 47 Since then 'tis only pity looking back, Fear looking forward, and the busy mind Will in one woeful moment more upwind Than lifelong years unroll of bitter or black; What is man's privilege, his hoarding knack Of memory with foreboding so combined, Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kind The perpetuity which all things lack? Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to have Being a continuance of what, alas, We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave; Or something so unknown that it o'erpass The thought of comfort, and the sense that gave Cannot consider it thro' any glass. 48 Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and take Not now the child into thine arms, from fright Composed by drowsy tune and shaded light, Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make; Nor now the boy, who scorn'd thee for the sake Of growing knowledge or mysterious night, Tho' with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite, And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake; No, nor the man severe, who from his best Failing, alert fled to thee, that his breath, Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest; But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth, For all my wakeful prayer sent without rest To thee, O shew and shadow of my death. 49