IX.

The festive rite was o'er--the group was gone, Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone-- For round his eye, and in his heart, there lay The tender spells which cleave to solitude. Who, when some gay delight hath pass'd away, Feels not a charmed musing in his mood, A poesy of thought, which yearns to pour Still worship to the Spirit of the Hour? Ah! they who bodied into deity The rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err. Sweet hours, ye _have_ a life, and holily That life is worn! and when no rude sounds stir The quiet of our hearts--we inly hear The hymnlike music of your floating voices, Telling us mystic tidings of the sphere Where hand in hand your linked choir rejoices, And filling us with calm and solemn thought, Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught.

With folded arms and upward brow, he leant Against the pillar of a sleeping tree; When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there went A murmur and a sigh along the air, And a light footstep, like a melody, Pass'd by the flowers. He turn'd;--What Nymph is there? What Hamadryad from the green recess Emerging into beauty like a star?-- He gazed--sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose loveliness Had in his England's gardens first (and far From these delicious groves) upon him beam'd, And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd.

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