Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more! 'Twere wild to hope for her, you say. I've torn and cast those words away. Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible; So, if I love, it is that hope Is not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour I must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o'er, Be not much other than before? Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere In which I'm held but while she's dear? For daily life's dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitude And sweet allegiance, which I owe Whether the debt be weal or woe? Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, prefer To want for all in wanting her. For all? Love's best is not bereft Ever from him to whom is left The trust that God will not deceive His creature, fashion'd to believe The prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell; Nor do I press the oracle For explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. V. FROM FREDERICK Fashion'd by Heaven and by art So is she, that she makes the heart Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace So lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while,) The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stir Passion to be her minister: Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, 'Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake, Give not this darling child of Thine To care less reverent than mine!' And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee; And, so, my life was sunlit spray And tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw near My Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none Gleam'd like the lightning in the sun; Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though love Lives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,) And, out of my immediate dread And crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err: I've lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think What cup of life I sought to drink! The bold, said I, have climb'd to bliss Absurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so great A heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will be That she will wait, when she shall see. This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yet Quite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hope