II.

It comes! the power Within me born flows back--my fruitless dower That could not win me love. Yet once again I greet it proudly, with its rushing train Of glorious images: they throng--they press-- A sudden joy lights up my loneliness-- I shall not perish all! The bright work grows Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, Leaf after leaf, to beauty--line by line, Through the pale marble’s veins. It grows!--and now I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine: I give my own life’s history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne!--thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, Touch’d into lovelier being by the glow Which in me dwells, as by the summer light All things are glorified. From thee my woe Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, When I am pass’d away. Thou art the mould, Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th’ untold, The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye-- Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw Into thy frame a voice--a sweet, and low, And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh, To send the passion of its melody Through his pierced bosom--on its tones to bear My life’s deep feeling, as the southern air Wafts the faint myrtle’s breath--to rise, to swell, To sink away in accents of farewell, Winning but one, _one_ gush of tears, whose flow Surely my parted spirit yet might know, If love be strong as death!