To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar,
Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light of moon or star;
To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth—
To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds had birth!
There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the sky,
When, with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train swept by;
Methought—St. Mary, shield us well!—that other forms moved there,
Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair!
Was it a dream?—how oft, in sleep, we ask, "Can this be true?"
Whilst warm imagination paints her marvels to our view;—