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So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better:-in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,-her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,-but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,

As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?-She had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be? She had loved him not,
Not given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wand'rer was return'd.-I saw him stand
Before an altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The starlight of his boyhood; -as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude; and then

As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced-and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been--

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,--
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love;-oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceiv'd
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls phrenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance

Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore;
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd

In all which was serv'd up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars

And the quick Spirit of the Universe

He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries.

To him the book of Night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret. Be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.

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THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

The purple noon's transparent light.
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;

I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown.

I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measur'd motion.

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within, nor calm around,
Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd-

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me.
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

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