MABEL.
I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith—
Am I not as the floating gossamer,
Steering through ether on thy guiding breath?
Am I not as the clay within thy hand,
Taking the shape and image of thy thought?
Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts
In erring love against thy watchful care.
That which thou doest I accept with joy;
I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark
The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.
ORAN.
Fear not! I do well think no peril lies
Within this power, but virtue of rare worth,
Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.—
Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth
Of all these glorious wanderings above?
No certain visions of the hidden things
Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?