He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;

He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,

For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,

And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.

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IV.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea

And on the shore he was a wanderer;

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110

There was a mass of many images

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.

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V.

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 charged 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.

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What could her grief be?-she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 141

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd

Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

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VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.-
The Wanderer 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 selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock

That in the antique Oratory shook

150

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, 160

And the remembered 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?

VII.

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 wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 170
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 unperceived