ing at the thought of error
As the shadows scare the fawn.

Love hath bound me to thee, lady,
Since the well-remembered day
When I first beheld thee coming
In the light of lustrous May.

Not a word I dared to utter--
More than he who, long ago,
Saw the heavenly shapes descending
Over Ida's slopes of snow:

When a low and solemn music
Floated through the listening grove,
And the throstle's song was silenced,
And the doling of the dove:

When immortal beauty opened
All its grace to mortal sight,
And the awe of worship blended
With the throbbing of delight.

As the shepherd stood before them
Trembling in the Phrygian dell,
Even so my soul and being
Owned the magic of the spell;

And I watched thee ever fondly,
Watched thee, dearest! from afar,
With the mute and humble homage
Of the Indian to a star.

Thou wert still the Lady Flora
In her morning garb of bloom;
Where thou wert was light and glory,
Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.

So for many a day I followed
For a long and weary while,
Ere my heart rose up to bless thee
For the yielding of a smile,--

Ere thy words were few and broken
As they answered back to mine,
Ere my lips had power to thank thee
For the gift vouchsafed by thine.

Then a mighty gush of passion
Through my inmost being ran;
Then my older life was ended,
And a dearer course began.

Dearer!--O, I cannot tell thee
What a load was swept away,
What a world of doubt and darkness
Faded in the dawning day!

All my error, all my weakness,
All my vain delusions fled:
Hope again revived, and gladness
Waved its wings above my head.

Like the wanderer of the desert,
When, across the dreary sand,
Breathes the perfume from the thickets
Bordering on the promised land;

When afar he sees the palm-trees
Cresting o'er the lonely well,
When he hears the pleasant tinkle
Of the distant camel's bell:

So a fresh and glad emotion
Rose within my swelling breast,
And I hurried swiftly onwards
To the haven of my rest.

Thou wert there with word and welcome,
With thy smile so purely sweet;
And I laid my heart before thee,
Laid it, darling, at thy feet!--

O ye words that sound so hollow
As I now recall your tone!
What are ye but empty echoes
Of a passion crushed and gone?