And hath in Heaven its perfect rest."--SOUTHEY.


Thou movest in visions, Love!--Around thy way,
E'en through this World's rough path and changeful day,
For ever floats a gleam,
Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn,
But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born--
The colouring of a dream!

Love, shall I read thy dream?--Oh! is it not
All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot--
A Bower for thee and thine?
Yes! lone and lonely is that Home; yet there
Something of Heaven in the transparent air
Makes every flower divine.

Something that mellows and that glorifies
Bends o'er it ever from the tender skies,
As o'er some Blessed Isle;
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow,
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly awhile.

The very whispers of the Wind have there
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear
Greeting from some bright shore,
Where none have said _Farewell!_--where no decay
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day;
Where the Storm's might is o'er.