Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust;
Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years,
——And thus they met!”
“Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”—
They speed, they press: what hath the miner found?
Relic or treasure—giant sword of old?
Gems bedded deep—rich veins of burning gold?
—Not so—the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band
In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath,