Small need to track his course from year to year, Till wearied passion paused in its career: Youth goads us on to action; lore of men Brings thought--thought books--books quiet; well, and then? Alas! we move but in the Hebrews' ring;[D] Our onward steps but back the landmarks bring, Until some few at least escape the thrall, And breathe the space beyond the flaming wall: Feel the large freedom which in faith is given, And poise the wings that shall possess the heaven. He sought his mother. She, intent to shun, Closed that last refuge on the homeless son, Till death approach'd, and Conscience, that sad star, Which heralds night, and plays but on the bar Of the Eternal Gate,--laid bare the crime, And woke the soul upon the brink of time. Haply if close, too closely, we would read That sibyl page, the motive of the deed, Remorse for him her life abandon'd, weaves Fear for the dearer one her death bereaves; And penitent lines consign'd, with eager prayer, The lorn Calantha to a brother's care. Not till long moons had waned in distant skies, O'er the last mandate wept the Indian's eyes; But the lost sister lived, the flower of yore Bloom'd from the grave,--and earth was sweet once more; Fair Florence holds the heart he yearns to meet; Swift, when heart yearns to heart, how swift the feet! Well, and those arms have clasp'd a sister now! Thy tears have fallen on a sister's brow! Alas! a sister's heart thy doom forbade; Thy lot as lonely, and thy hearth as sad. Is that pale shade the Peri-child in truth, Who shone, like Morning, on the hills of Youth? Is that cold voice the same that rang through air, Blithe as the bird sings in rebuke of care?