III.

And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not, O my beloved! there is _one_ hopeless lot, But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead _There_ sits the grief that mantles up its head, Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, When darkness, from the vainly doting sight Covers its beautiful![342] If thou wert gone To the grave’s bosom, with thy radiant brow-- If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now Seems floating through my soul, were music taken For ever from this world--oh! thus forsaken Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou’rt mine! With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, Sit a lone watcher for the day’s return.