To meet thee in that hollow vale.
[ Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of Chichester .]
* * * * * * *
'Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.' "
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine -
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers ;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last !
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast !
A voice from out the Future cries,
"Onward ! " - but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute - motionless - aghast !
For alas ! alas ! with me
The light of life is o'er.
"No more - no more - no more,"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar !
Now all my hours are trances ;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas ! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow ! -
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow !
* * * * * * * * *
"He is up
There like a Roman statue ! He will stand
Till Death hath made him marble !"
"Stay for me there ! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale."