e premonition that was mine--
A perfect premonition full and clear--
And as I know the persons it concerns,
I cannot think it all improbable,
So write it down, that when the time has passed,
I may compare the facts with what is here.
And yet I scarcely should have written this,
Had I not seen his haunting face to-day--
That face which I had never seen before,
Except in my one dream upon the rock
That leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.

The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe,
May darkly understand that death is near,
Yet bravely marches on to destiny.
I too behold a shadow in my path;
I too go on, nor waver in my way.

THE PREMONITION.

I.

Far off, across the turbulence of waves,
I seem to see a wife upon her knees,
Her supplicating hands outstretched to one
Who strikes her with coarse blows on cheek and breast.
He is her husband, and he leaves her there,
And takes her jewels and her only purse,
And in a ship embarks for other shores.
His is the face that I have seen to-day--
A handsome face whatever be its sins:
A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes,
A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth;
Long, fine black hair, which idly falls about
Shoulders that stoop from labor over books;
Withal a high and intellectual brow,
Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.

II.

I see the farm-house where my Grace abides;
The afternoon is clear, the grass is green;
And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook.
Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss,
I see the face intent upon the scene.
Now Grace draws near, and starting back to find
A stranger in the dell she loves the most,
Is half attracted by his cultured mien,
And half repelled by inconsistent fears.
He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak:
He has not seen such beauty in his life;
He craves to touch a finger of her hand,
To judge if she be of the earth, or one
Upon some holy mission from that land
Whereto, with fastings and with many prayers,
Through God's good grace he hopes yet to attain.

Then John Bernard, who has been working near,
Seeding the furrows for his empty barns,
This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand.
I see her smile in answer to his smiles.
She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech;
And yet she seems to fear him for some cause.
Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills,
I see them parting at the farm-house door--
The wide half-door which now is open