IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning, Brightly victorious o’er the hours of care! I have not watch’d in vain, serenely scorning The wild and busy whispers of despair! Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven--I wait The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. Oh! for the skylark’s wing that seeks its mate As a star shoots!--but on the breezy sea We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour! Will not my heart, o’erburden’d by its bliss, Faint and give way within me, as a flower Borne down and perishing by noontide’s kiss? Yet shall I _fear_ that lot--the perfect rest, The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, After long suffering won? So rich a close Too seldom crowns with peace affection’s woes.