A FRAGMENT. 367 



'Twas nature all, for I too dearly prized 



My sorrows for the comforts they employed 



And from such reveries, too oft indulged, 



I woke, as one uncertain of the mood 



That had beguiled existence, to renew 



Acquaintance with myself. Alas ! how few 



Who make themselves their study may pretend 



To certain knowledge of those principles 



That travail in the birth of thought, and guide 



The enterprise of mind ! And I, too prone 



To linger in the path where conscience led, 



Saw days and months expire, and hope itself 



Depart, that hope that e'en the dying one 



At length forsook, ere from my lethargy aroused 



I grasped the marble hand, and through my tears, 



A poor atonement, prayed aloud that God 



Would grant the pilgrim rest and peace in him ! 



O, if the unremembered deeds of Time, 



Ere yet upon his brow the crest of age 



Descended, could before me pass, and I, 



With faculties appointed to the load, 



The burthen of revelations bore, 



They could not press so heavy on my heart 



As that unearthly moan which in some deep 



Unknown recess lay sepulchred till then. 



What talisman was that to which a chord 



Its last vibration echoed ? Wake again, 



Mysterious stranger ! Though thy music shake 



The elements within, I will endure 



Thy awful, just reproach. Alas ! in vain 



I summoned its return the strain had fled 



For ever. What hath passed since then nor Time 



Nor yet Eternity may know, till God 



U nlock the prison-house of thought ; but here, 



Within my heart, that echo dwells, the guest 



Of other days : and e'en before these eyes, 



That look the fountains of repentant tears, 



At intervals the vision of that hour 



Returns, if not to bless, at least to wean 



My soul to God. Bear with me yet awhile 



No secret hath these lips disclosed which I 



Might wish concealed, nor dare the tongue offend 



The dictates of the heart. Hast thou communed 



With some departed spirit ere the flesh 



It once inhabited grew pale and died ? 



Hast thou, in speechless breathless woe, surveyed 



The wreck of all that once engrossed thy love, 



If haply one faint fleeting pulse remained 



To reassure thy hope ? And hast thou paused 



When all beside seemed weary of thy care, 



And vexed at thy delays, to look upon 



The study of an uncreated mind, 



The architecture of the soul's abode, 



So beautiful in ruins that there seemed 



On earth no tabernacle half so fair ? 



Thus have I watched, with half-suspended breath, 



The last farewell of spirits long prepared 



For flight, whose presence then mortality 



