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They do divide our being; they become

A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;

They pass like spirits of the past,-they speak
Like sybils of the future; they have power-
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

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They make us what we were not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?-The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

II.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last

As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave

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Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke

Arising from such rustic roofs;—the hill

Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem

Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,

Not by the sport of nature, but of man:

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing-the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young--yet not alike in youth.

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As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away;

He had no breath, no being, but in her's;

She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed her's, and saw with her's,
Which coloured all his objects:-he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,

Which terminated all: upon a tone,

A touch of her's, his blood would ebb and flow,

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And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart 60 Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left

Of a time-honoured race.-It was a name

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not -and

why?

Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved 70
Another; even now she loved another,

And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:

Within an antique Oratory stood

The Boy of whom I spake ;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion-then arose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow

Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,

The Lady of his love re-entered there,

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She was serene and smiling then, and yet

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She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew,

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw

That he was wretched, but she saw not all.

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp

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