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1858.]

lover of the Ideal Fair, My soul, eluded everywhere, Is lapsed into a sweet despair.

Perpetual pilgrim, seeking ever, Baffled, enamored, finding never; Each morn the cheerful chase renewing, Misled, bewildered, still pursuing; Not all my lavished years have bought One steadfast smile from her I sought, But sidelong glances, glimpsing light, A something far too fine for sight, Veiled voices, far off thridding strains, And precious agonies and pains: Not love, but only love's dear wound And exquisite unrest I found.

At early morn I saw her pass The lone lake's blurred and quivering glass; Her trailing veil of amber mist The unbending beaded clover kissed; And straight I hasted to waylay Her coming by the willowy way;— But, swift companion of the Dawn, She left her footprints on the lawn, And, in arriving, she was gone. Alert I ranged the winding shore; Her luminous presence flashed before; The wild-rose and the daisies wet From her light touch were trembling yet; Faint smiled the conscious violet; Each bush and brier and rock betrayed Some tender sign her parting made; And when far on her flight I tracked To where the thunderous cataract O'er walls of foamy ledges broke, She vanished in the vapory smoke.

To-night I pace this pallid floor, The sparkling waves curl up the shore, The August moon is flushed and full; The soft, low winds, the liquid lull, The whited, silent, misty realm, The wan-blue heaven, each ghostly elm, All these, her ministers, conspire To fill my bosom with the fire And sweet delirium of desire.