SAHARA.

I stood by Honor and the Dean,

They seated in the London train.

A month from her! yet this had been,

Ere now, without such bitter pain.

But neighbourhood makes parting light,

And distance remedy has none;

Alone, she near, I felt as might

A blind man sitting in the sun;

She near, all for the time was well;

Hope's self, when we were far apart,

With lonely feeling, like the smell

Of heath on mountains, fill'd my heart.

To see her seem'd delight's full scope,

And her kind smile, so clear of care,

Ev'n then, though darkening all my hope,

Gilded the cloud of my despair.

She had forgot to bring a book.

I lent one; blamed the print for old;

And did not tell her that she took

A Petrarch worth its weight in gold.

I hoped she'd lose it; for my love

Was grown so dainty, high, and nice,

It prized no luxury above

The sense of fruitless sacrifice.

The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death,

Link catching link, the long array,

With ponderous pulse and fiery breath,

Proud of its burthen, swept away;

And through the lingering crowd I broke,

Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick,

Beheld, far off, the little smoke

Along the landscape kindling quick.

What should I do, where should I go,

Now she was gone, my love! for mine

She was, whatever here below

Cross'd or usurp'd my right divine.

Life, without her, was vain and gross,

The glory from the world was gone,

And on the gardens of the Close

As on Sahara shone the sun.

Oppress'd with her departed grace,

My thoughts on ill surmises fed;

The harmful influence of the place

She went to fill'd my soul with dread.

She, mixing with the people there,

Might come back alter'd, having caught

The foolish, fashionable air

Of knowing all, and feeling nought.

Or, giddy with her beauty's praise,

She'd scorn our simple country life,

Its wholesome nights and tranquil days.

And would not deign to be my Wife.

‘ My Wife,’‘ my Wife,’ ah, tenderest word!

How oft, as fearful she might hear,

Whispering that name of‘ Wife,’ I heard

The chiming of the inmost sphere.

I pass'd the home of my regret.

The clock was striking in the hall,

And one sad window open yet,

Although the dews began to fall.

Ah, distance show'd her beauty's scope!

How light of heart and innocent

That loveliness which sicken'd hope

And wore the world for ornament!

How perfectly her life was framed;

And, thought of in that passionate mood,

How her affecting graces shamed

The vulgar life that was but good!

I wonder'd, would her bird be fed,

Her rose-plots water'd, she not by;

Loading my breast with angry dread

Of light, unlikely injury.

So, fill'd with love and fond remorse,

I paced the Close, its every part

Endow'd with reliquary force

To heal and raise from death my heart.

How tranquil and unsecular

The precinct! Once, through yonder gate,

I saw her go, and knew from far

Her love-lit form and gentle state.

Her dress had brush'd this wicket; here

She turn'd her face, and laugh'd, with light

Like moonbeams on a wavering mere.

Weary beforehand of the night,

I went; the blackbird, in the wood

Talk'd by himself, and eastward grew

In heaven the symbol of my mood,

Where one bright star engross'd the blue.