How lone, and yet how living in the All! 49 When it _imagines_ how aloof from men! How like the ancestral Adam ere the fall, In Eden bowers the painless denizen! But when it _feels_--the lonely heaven resign'd-- How social moves the man among mankind! Forth from the tomblike hamlet strays the King, 50 Restless with ills from which himself is free; In that dun air the only living thing He skirts the margin of the soundless sea; No--not alone, the musing Wanderer strays; For still the Dove smiles on the dismal ways. Nor can tongue tell, nor thought conceive how far 51 Into that storm-beat heart, the gentle bird Had built the halcyon's nest. How precious are In desolate hours, the Affections!--How, unheard Mid Noon's melodious myriads of delight, Thrills the low note that steals the gloom from night! And, in return, a human love replying 52 To his caress, seem'd in those eyes to dwell, That mellow murmur, like a human sighing, Seem'd from those founts that lie i' the heart to swell. Love wants not speech; from silence speech it builds, Kindness like light speaks in the air it gilds. That angel guide! His fate while leading on, 53 It follow'd each quick movement of his soul. As the soft shadow from the setting sun Precedes the splendour passing to its goal, Before his path the gentle herald glides, Its life reflected from the life it guides. Was Arthur sad? how sadden'd seem'd the Dove! 54 Did Arthur hope? how gaily soar'd its wings! Like to that sister spirit left above, The half of ours, which, torn asunder, springs Ever through space, yearning to join once more The earthlier half, its own and Heaven's before;[11] Like an embodied living Sympathy 55 Which hath no voice and yet replies to all That wakes the lightest smile, the faintest sigh,-- So did the instinct and the mystery thrall To the earth's son the daughter of the air; And pierce his soul--to place the sister there. She was to him as to the bard his muse 56 The solace of a sweet confessional: The hopes--the fears which manly lips refuse To speak to man, those leaves of thought that fall With every tremulous zephyr from the Tree Of Life, whirl'd from us down the darksome sea;-- Those hourly springs and winters of the heart 57 Weak to reveal to Reason's sober eye, The proudest yet will to the muse impart, And grave in song the record of a sigh. And hath the muse no symbol in the Dove?-- Both give what youth most miss'd in human love!