III.

He is lying in the sunshine with the blithe birds round him singing, There are flowers beside his pillow, there are flowers beneath his feet, Summer pours her treasures round him, like a gentle maiden flinging Fragrant blossoms from her bosom o'er a path to make it sweet.

She is kneeling in the sunshine with the radiant glory o'er her, And his palm is on her tresses, her's are folded on her breast; He were very calm and happy, only for the love he bore her, Which was far too sweet a feeling to resign it e'en for rest.

“Bright May! dear May! draw still nearer, nearer, dear May! till my spirit Sun itself within your brightness, as the lark doth in the day; Soon the air will be so lumined that my weakness will not bear it, So I'll gather new strength from thee to support me on my way.

“There are tears within your eyes, May, let me kiss them from your eyes, May, They will taste as sweet to me as do the dews upon the rose; Dear eyes how I love them! they oft tell me of the skies, May, Tell me secrets of the Blessed more than mortal spirit knows.

“Ah! I knew not in the old time half the sweetness that doth linger Round the simple things of Nature which the proud heart passes by, Now I see there's not a wildflower but doth point with warning finger, To the unobservant passer, truths of immortality.

“Bright May, thou shalt be my beadsman, and thy golden tresses drooping Round thee shall be all the vesture that my loving soul shall seek; Thou shalt be a meet confessor for a lowly poet stooping To breathe forth his secret failings, and read pardon on thy cheek.

“Bright May! I have been a strayer from the narrow path that wanders Through this world to lead the traveller to a glad eternity, I have been an erring madman, for the blind heart never ponders Till the fancied light it follows lead it from felicity.

“I have been most false and perjured, false to all a poet's duty, Even whilst my heart was boasting proudly of a poet's creed, I have loudly claimed the title of a worshipper of beauty, Yet could gaze upon a flower till I thought it but a weed.

“Yes! I dwelt amid the woodlands with bright streamlets singing round me, Sunny dells, moss-paven alleys, and cool shades to ramble in; All was happy, all was peaceful, yet e'en there ambition found me, Charm'd me forth into the rough world to engulph me in its din.

“Yes! I wearied of the woodlands, of the streams and sunny places Where I lay me in the summer to dream all the noontide o'er, Like the child of a sweet mother lapt within her fond embraces Drawing fitness from her beauty to lisp forth in poet's lore.

But the time is drawing nigh; now, when my soul sublimed from folly Shall see all things in their trueness, with no sun-veil drawn between; Know that glory is mere weakness and that aim alone is holy Which, wrought out in life with patience, fits man for a higher scene.