IV.
Within an arbour, rudely reared, But to the maiden's heart endeared By every tie that binds1 the heart, By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,-For it was here he first poured out In words, the love she could not doubt,
- Mazelli silent sits apart. Did ever dreaming devotee, Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, Shapes out the bright ideal form To which he meekly2 bends the knee, Conceive of aught so fair as she？ The holiest seraph3 of the sphere Most holy, if by chance led here, Might drink such light from those soft eyes, That he would hold them far more dear Than all the treasures of the skies. Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow Shade after shade is passing now, Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, As thought on rapid thought advancing, Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, Not doubting, and yet not at rest. Not doubting！ Man may turn away And scoff4 at shrines5, where yesterday He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, And wealth may lose its charm for him, And fame's alluring6 star grow dim, Devotion, avarice7, glory, all The pageantries of earth may pall8；
But love is of a higher birth Than these, the earth-born things of earth, A spark from the eternal flame, Like it, eternally the same, It is not subject to the breath Of chance or change, of life or death. And so doubt has no power to blight9 Its bloom, or quench10 its deathless light, A deathless light, a peerless bloom, That beams and glows beyond the tomb！ Go tell the trusting devotee, His worship is idolatry； Say to the searcher after gold, The prize he seeks is dull and cold； Assure the toiler11 after fame, That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, A mocking shade, a phantasy, And they, perchance, may list to thee； But say not to the trusting maid, Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed, As soon thy words may lull12 the gale13, As gain her credence14 to the tale！ And still the bridegroom is not there
Oh！ why yet tarries he, and where？
