III.

And find mine ark! Yet whither? I must bear A yearning heart within me to the grave. I am of those o’er whom a breath of air-- Just darkening in its course the lake’s bright wave, And sighing through the feathery canes--hath power To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard’s cave! So must it be! These skies above me spread: Are they my own soft skies?--Ye rest not here, my dead!