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1825.] He will not;—cure him, Heaven! Oh! if this be A spirit good, and not a dream, it will not Sure tempt him on to such mad misery.

Again upon one hour, one place, one person, If person I may call what's incorporeal, My destiny seems hanging. Spirit, spirit, Wilt thou not come?—Oh! sure it is thine hour; Why but for one short hour dost thou deign walk. Before the eyes of mortals? Ah! a mortal Am I? or, if a mortal, am I man, Who thus am separated from all men By mystery of this fierce affection, which. Told to their ears, would seem unnatural? Is it not so?—ah! that thought I cannot brook, Thitherward dare not look: I only feel That this delay is horrific. Stars, oh! hear me;— Planets, hear as ye wander; for ye sure Meet her luxuriant form come floating by Your jewell'd cars, and by the diamond seats Of yon your thousand sistering stars, their orbs Passing in glory, and your own in fleetness;— Ye angels of Heaven's hosts, cloud not—oh! cloud not, Lest despair whisper me yon skies do frown; Echo my prayers up to God's sapphire throne; Let me not cheated be by a mad love Of what exists not; or, if 'twere no dream Of fancy or of slumber,—be not these Put up for naught—these supplications vague Of mine for pity, for the leave to keep This passion, which is, even as my heart's blood, Mine action's vital spring. Even though I wear My heart away with longing, and my life, Still let me long and love, till I become Akin to her pure nature;—if indeed Ere then fate's chain across my haven of hope Be drawn; even so my destiny hath a breeze Will drive me on that bar, though there I split: So be it. Oh! how loudly this room's silence Speaks of her saintlike presence; and yon couch Where lay her lovely form,—so far eclipsing All, mind e'er moulds—or pencil paints—or chisel Carves, or hath carved, the Parian stone to. Thee, Sweet sofa, I may kiss, where her cheek thee press'd With the ethereal blush, and with the unworldly Clearness of her complexion dusk, yet deeply Tinging with love's light, what hearts look thereon.— Come to mine arms, thou graceful ghost; immortal, Come to a mortal's arms, and find within Their clasp how fond a heart doth pant. Come quick. Hark! that's the clock,—why loiters she? three. . . four; Must I but once behold thee, and that once Past—past already? eight. . . nine. . . ten. Strike quicker, Ye hours; she will not come;—twelve! ... no, she comes not. Misery! misery!—and I—'tis I Have chased thee from thy chapel, sainted soul.