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When the Prophet heart's delight
Yields the sense a second sight,'
And the gentle earth is riven,
And its faëry kingdoms bare,
And we hear the harps of Heaven
In the low breath of the air ;-
Only in the brief and fleeting,
Sorcery of that sweet self-cheating :
If such spirits chance to glow
With a deep love born below;
And that love be duly plighted,
And that love untimely blighted,
Then no earthlier nature e'er,
Knew their rapture, their despair;

Knew the dreams that round them tended,
Breath 'd to being at their call;
Knew the height their hearts ascended,

Or the dreadness of the fall.

First love is like our earliest Play!

What enchantment of survey!

Every scene and whisper giveth
Life that monarch never liveth.
What a magic of amaze
In the passion of the gaze!
What a transport in the fear,
That can soul the panting ear!
Heavily the curtain's pall
Slow descendeth over all,

And the Musick's voice is gone,

And the lights fade one by one;
And upon the glory past,

Rushes the black-winged Silence fast!
Yet, vainly yet, in Memory's cell,
Echoes and haunts for aye the spell!
Oft again our souls will woo it,
But, remembering, ne'er renew it ;
Oft again we seek the stage-
But the magic was the age!
And the scene has lost its glory,
And the zest has left the story!
Love, and Plays are oft repeated,
But no more the gaze is cheated!
And all after-charm is curst,
By the contrast of the first!

But Julian's heart was proud and stern,
And in its silent depth conceal'd

A spirit ever wont to yearn

For action in some broader field.
And when the brooding mist at last,
From his dark mind in shadow past,
Designs, and schemes, those homes of care,
Bold, but as yet half shaped, were there,
As some grey city dim descried

Through the moist dawn's slow-waning haze, When broke, and scatter'd faint and wide,

The world beneath some sleepless eye surveys!

He turn'd him with a silent heart,

Unto the daily cares of clay, The dullest breast can act its part,

When sorrow is the play.

But those who knew him mark'd the soul,
Was absent from his quiet eye;
The smile at will he might control,
But not at times the sigh.
And never as of old, the smile!

It chill'd, it sadden'd while it shone,
Like lights we only kindle, while
The life of day is gone.

From his youth upward he had fed

On lonely, but on daring thought, And now the altering charm was fled, His ancient food he sought;

Oft would he sit for hours, and mark

The wan moon creep her weary way, And hold communion, sad and dark,

With that true Genius of our clay, Urger of Hope-Woe-Virtue-SinThe unsleeping Second-Self within! And, when the morning came, you saw Upon his cheek the haggard brand,

Which one might bear, whose spell could draw

The Spirit from its land.

The fallen lip, the harass'd brow,

The wrung exhaustion, and the awe!

Alas! the soul has fiends that sear,
As dreadly the consuming frame

As aught, escaped from Nature's law,
That ever to the cavern came

Of those whose kingly charm could bow Of old, the monster-powers of Fear ! Whose daring souls were nerved to brave The dark things of the riven grave; Girt with the menaced fire, to breast The lighnings of the armed Priest; Trample the fears of nature-quell The flesh, by one immortal spell, And shake the very Thrones of Hell! Arch Rebels of our tyrant BirthThe more than monarchs of the earth, Humbling that dread, and shadowy world, Around our own so dimly curled; Who, mightier than the Heathen's God, From Fate herself usurped the rod, And made her rent recess the cells, Voiced with a mortal's oracles. Sceptering the mysteries of the Deep, The Whirlwinds in their Mountain-keep ; The Seasons in their rounded march, The wan Kings of the starred Arch; Rapt above Nature and o'er Time, By lore too glorious to be crime!

Days went; and Julian's schemes at last,
From their completing mould were cast,
And fixed the bourne on Indian soil,
Where Wealth might sometime yield to Toil.
And wealth was precious in his eyes,
For wealth might win to love the prize.

Improved are now the bribes of old,
Since Danaë was seduced by gold---
You want the daughter ?--well then, rather
Shower the gold upon the father!

And, tho' not oft, our lovers yet,
By stealth, and for brief moments met--
Ah! meetings which are traced in tears,
And hopes just-born-are tomb'd in fears!

Oh! what a soft and lovely shroud

Of thought hangs o'er such mournful meeting! The grief consoled--the comfort vow'd--

Are memories far too fond for fleeting.

As some benign and gentle shade
Our woe itself hath sacred made,
They wander with us, and invite
Our steps to no unholy rite;
Wearing the mystery of the tomb,
Its tenderness-but not its gloom!

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