II.

The lovers met in twilight and in stealth. Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale, That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles, And there collects and there conceals the wealth, Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale, Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth; And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells, On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth.

All nature was a treasury which their hearts Rifled and coin'd in passion; the soft grass, The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell; The sighing leaves which, as the day departs, The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell; The stiller boughs blent in one emerald mass, Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along, Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song; All furnish'd them with images and words, And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer; Their love made life one melody, like birds, And circled earth with its own rosy air. What in that lovely climate doth the breast Interpret not into some sound of love? Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest, Like the god's smile, upon the pictured dream Limn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude, Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?-- Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed? Nor know that presence by its light,--and deem The Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine, "Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?"