V.

“Take heart, and I thy faltering steps will lead Above the earth-mists and the brier-strewn road To my far mountain-tops, the pure abode Of heaven-born stream, and fair enamelled mead Whose flow’rs immortal fells not any scythe. Long have I sought thee 'mid the withering flowers Wherewith thou smiling crown’dst the fading hours, Weaving fine fancies 'mid the murmuring blithe Of lowland stream, and birds, and pattering leaves; Long have I called thee, waiting for thy voice, So faint it rose above the troublous noise Of earthly harvesters among their sheaves; Long have I waited thy dear heart to win, So long desired to reign with thee therein.”