xx.
Thine eyes have told me things I dare not speak;
And I will trust the track they bid me seek,
Yea, though it lead me to the gates of death!
The wind is labouring:—it is out of breath;
Belike for scampering up the hill so fast
To say all's well with thee; and, down the blast,
I seem to hear the sounds of serenades
That swell from out the song-fields of the past.
