Scenes, long since forgotten, had been peopling his solitude with one still cherished image paramount over all; one young fair face, whose sweet eyes seemed to look upon him reproachfully: but his own words best shew the weary spirit now disquieted within him,—
Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams,
That which once my all, thy image seems,
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams.
Long time that sweet face was my guiding star,
Bringing me visions of the fair and far,
Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar.
Around it was an atmosphere of light,
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night,
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright.
Like to a spirit did it dwell apart,
Hushed in the sweetest silence of my heart,
Lifting me to the heaven from whence thou art.
Too soon the day broke on that haunted hour,
Loosing its spell, and weakening its power,
All that had been imagination's dower.
The noontide quenched that once enchanted ray;
Care, labour, sorrow, gathered on the day;
Toil was upon my steps, dust on my way.
