Next morn, light-hearted William passed along,
And careless hummed a desultory song,
Bound to St Ives' revel.[64] Not a ray
Yet streaked the pale dawn of the dubious day;
The sun is yet below the hills: but, look!278
There is the tower—the mill—the stile—the brook,—
And there is Mary's cottage! All is still!
Listen! no sound is heard but of the mill.
'Tis true, the toils of day are not begun,
But Mary always rose before the sun.
Still at the door, a leafless relic now,
Appeared a remnant of the May-day bough;
No hour-glass, in the window, tells the hours:
Where is poor Mary, where her book, her flowers?
Ah! was it fancy?—as he passed along,
He thought he heard a spirit's feeble song.[65]
Struck by the thrilling sound, he turned his look.290
Upon the ground there lay an open book;
One page was folded down:—Spirit of grace!
See! there are soils, like tear-blots, on the place!
It is a prayer-book! Soon these words he read;
Let him be desolate, and beg his bread![66]
Let there be none, not one, on earth to bless,—
Be his days few,—his children fatherless,—
His wife a widow!—let there be no friend
In his last moments mercy to extend!
It was a prayer-book he before had seen:300
Where? when? Once more, wild terror on his mien,
He read the page:—An outcast let him lie,
And unlamented and forsaken die!
When he has children, may they pine away
Before his sight,—his wife to grief a prey.
Ah! 'tis poor Mary's book!—the very same306
He read with her at church; and, lo! her name:—
The book of Mary Banks;—when this you see,
And I am dead and gone, remember me!
He trembles: mark!—the dew is on his brow:
The curse is hers! he cried—I feel it now!
I see already, even at my right hand,
Dead Mary, thy accusing spirit stand!
I feel thy deep, last curse! Then, with a cry,
He sunk upon the earth in agony.
Feebly he rose,—when, on the matted hair
Of a drowned maid, and on her bosom bare,
The sun shone out; how horrid, the first glance
Of sunlight, on that altered countenance!
The eyes were open, but though cold and dim,320
Fixed with accusing ghastliness on him!
Merciful God! with faltering voice he cries,
Hide me! oh, hide me from the sight! Those eyes—
They glare on me! oh, hide me with the dead!
The curse, the deep curse rests upon my head!
Alas, poor maid! 'twas frenzy fired thy breast,
Which prompted horrors not to be expressed:
Whilst ever at thy side the foul fiend stood,
And, laughing, pointed to the oblivious flood.
William, heart-stricken, to despair a prey,330
Soon left the village, journeying far away.
For, as if Mary's ghost in judgment cried,
His wife, in the first pains of child-birth, died.
Who has not heard, St Cuthbert, of thy well?
Perhaps the spirit may his fortunes tell.[67]
He dropped a pebble—mark! no bubble bright336
Comes from the bottom—turn away thy sight!
He looks again: O God! those eye-balls glare
How terribly! Ah, smooth that matted hair!
Mary! dear Mary! thy cold corse I see340
Rise from the fountain! Look not thus at me!
I cannot bear the sight, that form, that look!
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
Meantime, poor Mary in the grave was laid;—
Her lone and gray-haired mother wept and prayed:
Soon to the dust she followed; and, unknown,
There they both rest without a name or stone.
The village maids, who pass in summer by,
Still stop and say one prayer, for charity!
But what of William? Hide me in the mine!350
He cried, the beams of day insulting shine!
Earth's very shadows are too gay, too bright,—
Hide me for ever in forgetful night!
In vain—that form, the cause of all his woes,
More sternly terrible in darkness rose!
Nearer he saw, with its pale waving hand,
The phantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring360
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine,—wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime!—Ocean, be thou my home!
Some say he died: here he was seen no more;
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee,370
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life,380
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,—
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!—
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown:390
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes—with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide—400
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide,—
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies,—404
And, hark! far off, the lessening laughter dies.
Years passed away,—at night, or evening close,
Faint, and more faint, the accusing spectre rose.
Restored from toil and perils of the main,
Now William treads his native place again.
Near the Land's-end, upon the rudest shore,410
Where, from the west, Atlantic surges roar,
He lived, a lonely stranger, sad, but mild;
All marked his sadness, chiefly when he smiled;
Some competence he gained, by years of toil:
So, in a cottage, on his native soil,
He dwelt, remote from crowds, nor told his tale
To human ear: he saw the white clouds sail
Oft o'er the bay,[68] when suns of summer shone,
Yet still he wandered, muttering and alone.
At night, when, like the tumult of the tide,420
Sinking to sad repose, all trouble died,
The book of God was on his pillow laid,
He wept upon it, and in secret prayed.
He had no friend on earth, save one blue jay,[69]
Which, from the Mississippi, far away,
O'er the Atlantic, to his native land
He brought;—and this poor bird fed from his hand.
In the great world there was not one beside
For whom he cared, since his own mother died.
Yet manly strength was his, for twenty-years430
Weighed light upon his frame, though passed in tears;
His age not forty-two, and in his face
Of care more than of age appeared the trace.
Mary was scarce remembered; by degrees,
The sights and sounds of life began to please.
Ruth was a widow, who, in youth, had known436
Griefs of the heart, and losses of her own.
She, patient, mild, compassionate, and kind,
First woke to human sympathies his mind.
He looked affectionately, when her child440
Caressed his bird, and then he stood and smiled.
This widow and her child, almost unknown,
Lived in a cottage that adjoined his own.
Her husband was a fisher, one whose life
Is fraught with terror to an anxious wife:
Night after night exposed upon the main;
Returning, tired with toil, or drenched with rain;
His gains, uncertain as his life; he knows
No stated hours of labour and repose.
When others to a cheerful home retire,450
And his wife sits before the evening fire,
He, rocking in the dark, tempestuous night,
Haply is thinking of that social light.
Ruth's husband left the bay, the wind and rain
Came down, the tempest swept the howling main;
The boat sank in the storm, and he was found,
Below the rocks of the dark Lizard, drowned.
Seven years had passed, and after evening prayer,
To William's cottage Ruth would oft repair,
And with her little son would sometimes stay,460
Listening to tales of regions far away.
The wondering boy loved of those scenes to hear—
Of battles—of the roving buccaneer—
Of the wild hunters, in the forest-glen,
And fires, and dances of the savage men.
So William spoke of perils he had passed,—
Of voices heard amid the roaring blast;
Of those who, lonely and of hope bereft,
Upon some melancholy rock are left,
Who mark, despairing, at the close of day,470
Perhaps, some far-off vessel sail away.
He spoke with pity of the land of slaves—
And of the phantom-ship that rides the waves.[70]
It comes! it comes! A melancholy light
Gleams from the prow upon the storm of night.
'Tis here! 'tis there! In vain the billows roll;
It steers right on, but not a living soul
Is there to guide its voyage through the dark,
Or spread the sails of that mysterious bark!
He spoke of vast sea-serpents, how they float480
For many a rood, or near some hurrying boat
Lift up their tall neck, with a hissing sound,
And questing turn their bloodshot eye-balls round.
He spoke of sea-maids, on the desert rocks,
Who in the sun comb their green dripping locks,
While, heard at distance, in the parting ray,
Beyond the furthest promontory's bay,
Aërial music swells and dies away!
One night they longer stayed the tale to hear,
And Ruth that night "beguiled him of a tear,490
Whene'er he told of the distressful stroke
Which his youth suffered." Then, she pitying spoke;
And from that night a softer feeling grew,
As calmer prospects rose within his view.
And why not, ere the long night of the dead,
The slow descent of life together tread?
The day is fixed; William no more shall roam,
William and Ruth shall have one heart—one home:
The world shut out, both shall together pray:
Both wait the evening of life's changeful day:500
She shall his anguish soothe, when he is wild,
And he shall be a father to her child.
Fair rose the morn—the summer air how bland!503
The blue wave scarcely seems to touch the land.
Again 'tis William's wedding-day! advance—
For lo! the church and blue slate of Penzance!
Their faith and troth is pledged, the rites are o'er,
The nuptial band winds slow along the shore,
The smiling boy beside. As thus they passed,
With sudden blackness rushed the impetuous blast;[71]510
Deep thunder rolled in long portentous sound,
At distance: nearer now, it shakes the ground.
Pale, William sinks, with speechless dread oppressed,
As the forked flash seems darted at his breast.
His beating heart is heard,—blanched is his cheek,—
A well-known voice seemed in the storm to speak;
Aghast he cried again, with frantic look,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
By late remorse he died; for, from that day,
The judgment on his head, he pined away,520
And soon an outcast suicide he lay.
By the church-porch rests Mary of Guynear;—
When the first cuckoo startles the cold year,
And blue mint[72] on her grave more beauteous grows,
One small bird[73] seems to sing for her repose.
Near the Land's-end, so black and weather-beat,
He lies, and the dark sea is at his feet.
Thou, who hast heard the tale of the sad maid,
Know, conscious guilt is the accusing shade:
If thou hast loved some gentle maid and true,530
Whose first affections never swerved from you;
Leave her not—oh! for pity and for truth,532
Leave her not, tearful in her days of youth!
Too late, the pang of vain remorse shall start,
And Conscience thus avenge—a broken heart!
PART FOURTH.
WALK ABROAD—VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL—WRINGTON—"AULD ROBIN GRAY."
The shower is past—the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow,—such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.10
No object on the wider sea-line meets
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship—the very ship I saw
In infancy, and in that very place,
Whilst I, and all around me, have grown old
Since she was first descried; and there she sits,
A solitary thing of the wide main—
As she sat years ago. Yet she moves on:—20
To-morrow all may be one waste of waves!
Where is she bound? We know not; and no voice22
Will tell us where. Perhaps she beats her way
Slow up the channel, after many years,
Returning from some distant clime, or lands,
Beyond the Atlantic! Oh! what anxious eyes
Count every nearer surge that heaves around!
How many anxious hearts this moment beat
With thronging thoughts of home, till those fixed eyes,
Intensely fixed upon these very hills,30
Are filled with tears! Perhaps she wanders on—
On—on—into the world of the vast sea,
There to be lost: never, with homeward sails,
Destined to greet these far-seen hills again,
Now fading into mist! So let her speed,
And we will pray she may return in joy,
When every storm is past! Such is this sea,
That shows one wandering ship! How different smile
The sea-scenes of the south; and chiefly thine,
Waters of loveliest Hampton, chiefly thine—40
Where I have passed the happiest hours of youth—
Waters of loveliest Hampton! Thy gray walls,
And loop-hooled battlements, cast the same shade
Upon the light blue wave, as when of yore,
Beneath their arch, King Canute sat,[74] and chid
The tide, that came regardless to his feet,
A thousand years ago. Oh! how unlike
Yon solitary sea, the summer shines,
There, while a crowd of glancing vessels glide,
Filled with the young and gay, and pennants wave,50
And sails, at distance, beautifully swell
To the light breeze, or pass, like butterflies,
Amid the smoking steamers. And, oh look!—
Look! what a fairy lady is that yacht
That turns the wooded point, and silently55
Streams up the sylvan Itchin; silently—
And yet as if she said, as she went on,
Who does not gaze at me!
Yon winding sands
Were solitary once, as the wide sea.60
Such I remember them! No sound was heard,
Save of the sea-gull warping on the wind,
Or of the surge that broke along the shore,
Sad as the seas; and can I e'er forget,
When, once, a visitor from Oxenford,
Proud of Wintonian scholarship, a youth,
Silent, but yet light-hearted, deeming here
I could have no companion fit for him—
So whispered youthful vanity—for him
Whom Oxford[75] had distinguished,—can my heart70
Forget when once, with thoughts like these, at morn,
I wandered forth alone! The first ray shone
On the white sea-gull's wing, and gazing round,
I listened to the tide's advancing roar,
When, for the old and booted fisherman,
Who silent dredged for shrimps, in the cold haze
Of sunrise, I beheld—or was it not
A momentary vision?—a fair form—
A female, following, with light, airy step,
The wave as it retreated, and again80
Tripping before it, till it touched her foot,
As if in play; and she stood beautiful,
Like to a fairy sea-maid of the deep,
Graceful, and young, and on the sands alone.
I looked that she would vanish! She had left,
Like me, just left the abode of discipline,
And came, in the gay fulness of her heart,
When the pale light first glanced along the wave,88
To play with the wild ocean, like a child;
And though I knew her not, I vowed (oh, hear,
Ye votaries of German sentiment!)—
Vowed an eternal love; but, diffident,
I cast a parting look, that seemed to say,
Shall we ne'er meet again? The vision smiled,
And left the scene to solitude. Once more
We met, and then we parted, in this world
To meet no more; and that fair form, that shone
The vision of a moment, on the sands,
Was never seen again! Now it has passed
Where all things are forgotten; but it shone100
To me a sparkle of the morning sun,
That trembled on the light wave yesterday,
And perished there for ever!
Look around!
Above the winding reach of Severn stands,
With massy fragments of forsaken towers,
Thy castle, solitary Walton. Hark!
Through the lone ivied arch, was it the wind
Came fitful! There, by moonlight, we might stand,
And deem it some old castle of romance;110
And on the glimmering ledge of yonder rock,
Above the wave, fancy it was the form
Of a spectre-lady, for a moment seen,
Lifting her bloody dagger, then with shrieks
Vanishing! Hush! there is no sound—no sound
But of the Severn sweeping onward! Look!
There is no bleeding apparition there—
No fiery phantoms glare along thy walls!
Surrounded by the works of silent art,
And far, far more endearing, by a group120
Of breathing children, their possessor lives;[76]121
And ill should I deserve the name of bard—
Of courtly bard, if I could touch this theme
Without a prayer—an earnest, heartfelt prayer,
When one, whose smile I never saw but once,
Yet cannot well forget, when one now blooms—
Unlike the spectre-lady of the rock—
A living and a lovely bride![77]
How proud,
Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud,130
With all her spires and fanes, and volumed smoke,
Trailing in columns to the midday sun,
Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze,
And the great stir of commerce, and the noise
Of passing and repassing wains, and cars,
And sledges, grating in their underpath,
And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts
And pennants from all nations of the earth,
Streaming below the houses, piled aloft,
Hill above hill; and every road below140
Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high
On their rough pads, in dingy dust serene:—
How proudly, amid sights and sounds like these,
Bristol, through all whose smoke, dark and aloof,
Stands Redcliff's solemn fane,—how proudly girt
With villages, and Clifton's airy rocks,
Bristol, the mistress of the Severn sea—
Bristol, amid her merchant-palaces,
That ancient city sits!
From out those trees,150
Look! Congresbury lifts its slender spire!
How many woody glens and nooks of shade,152
With transient sunshine, fill the interval,
As rich as Poussin's landscapes! Gnarled oaks,
Dark, or with fits of desultory light
Flung through the branches, there o'erhang the road,
Where sheltered, as romantic, Brockley-Coombe
Allures the lingering traveller to wind,
Step by step, up its sylvan hollow, slow,
Till, the proud summit gained, how gloriously160
The wide scene lies in light! how gloriously
Sun, shadows, and blue mountains far away,
Woods, meadows, and the mighty Severn blend,
While the gray heron up shoots, and screams for joy!
There the dark yew starts from the limestone rock
Into faint sunshine; there the ivy hangs
From the old oak, whose upper branches, bare,
Seem as admonishing the nether woods
Of Time's swift pace; while dark and deep beneath
The fearful hollow yawns, upon whose edge170
One peeping cot sends up, from out the fern,
Its early wreath of slow-ascending smoke.
And who lives in that far-secluded cot?
Poor Dinah! She was once a serving-maid,
Most beautiful; now, on the wild wood's edge
She lives alone, alone, and bowed with age,
Muttering, and sad, and scarce within the sound
Of human kind, forsaken as the scene!
Nor pass we Fayland, with its fairy rings
Marking the turf, where tiny elves may dance,180
Their light feet twinkling in the dewy gleam,
By moonlight. But what sullen demon piled
The rocks, that stern in desolation frown,
Through the deep solitude of Goblin-Coombe,[78]
Where, wheeling o'er its crags, the shrilling kite183
More dismal makes its utter dreariness!
But yonder, at the foot of Mendip, smiles
The seat of cultivated Addington:[79]
And there, that beautiful but solemn church
Presides o'er the still scene, where one old friend[80]190
Lives social, while the shortening day unfelt
Steals on, and eve, with smiling light, descends—
With smiling light, that, lingering on the tower,
Reminds earth's pilgrim of his lasting home.
Is that a magic garden on the edge
Of Mendip hung? Even so it seems to gleam;
While many a cottage, on to Wrington's smoke
(Wrington, the birth-place of immortal Locke),
Chequers the village-crofts and lowly glens
With porch of flowers, and bird-cage, at the door,200
That seems to say—England, with all thy crimes,
And smitten as thou art by pauper-laws,
England, thou only art the poor man's home!
And yonder Blagdon, in its sheltered glen,
Sits pensive, like a rock-bird in its cleft.
The craggy glen here winds, with ivy hung,
Beneath whose dark, depending tresses peeps
The Cheddar-pink; there fragments of red rock
Start from the verdant turf, among the flowers.
And who can paint sweet Blagdon, and not think210
Of Langhorne, in that hermitage of song—
Langhorne, a pastor, and a poet too![81]
He, in retirement's literary bower,
Oft wooed the Sisters of the sacred well,
Harmonious: nor pass on without a prayer
For her, associate of his early fame,216
Accomplished, eloquent, and pious More,[82]
Who now, with slow and gentle decadence,
In the same vale, with look upraised to heaven,
Waits meekly at the gate of paradise,220
Smiling at time!
But, hark! there comes a song,
Of Scotland's lakes and hills—Auld Robin Gray!
Tweed, or the winding Tay, ne'er echoed words
More sadly soothing; but the melody,[83]
Like some sweet melody of olden times,
A ditty of past days, rose from those woods.
Oh! could I hear it, as I heard it once—
Sung by a maiden[84] of the south, whose look
(Although her song be sweet), whose look, and life,230
Are sweeter than her song—no minstrel gray,
Like Donald and "the Lady of the Lake,"
But would lay down his harp, and when the song
Was ended, raise his lighted eyes, and smile,
To thank that maiden, with a strain like this:—
Oh! when I hear thee sing of "Jamie far away,"
Of "father and of mother," and of "Auld Robin Gray,"
I listen till I think it is Jeanie's self I hear,
And I look in thy face with a blessing and a tear.
"I look in thy face," for my heart it is not cold,[85]240
Though winter's frost is stealing on, and I am growing old;
Those tones I shall remember as long as I live,242
And a blessing and a tear shall be the thanks I give.
The tear it is for summers that so blithesome have been,
For the flowers that all are faded, and the days that I have seen;
The blessing, lassie, is for thee, whose song, so sadly sweet,
Recalls the music of "Lang Syne," to which my heart has beat.
PART FIFTH.
LANG SYNE—VISION OF THE DELUGE—CONCLUSION
The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long ago
It died away—died, and was heard no more!
And where those hills that skirt the level vale,
On to the left, the prospect intercept,
I would not, could not look, were they removed;
I would not, could not look, lest I should see
The sunshine on that spot of all the world,
Where, starting from the dream of youth, I gazed
Long since, on the cold, clouded world, and cried,
Beautiful vision, loved, adored, in vain,10
Farewell—farewell, for ever!
How sincere,
How pure was my heart's love! oh! was it not?
Yes; Heaven can witness, now my brow is changed,
And I look back, and almost seem to hear
The music of the days when we were young,
Like music in a dream, ere we awoke,
Oh! witness, Heaven, how fervent, how sincere—
How fervent, and how tender, and how pure,19
Was my fond heart's first love!
The summer eve
Shone, as with sympathy of sweet farewell,
Upon thy Tor, and solitary mound,
Glaston, as rapidly I passed along,
Borne from those scenes for ever, while with song
The sorrows of the hour and way beguiled.
So passed the days of youth, which ne'er return,
Tearful; for worldly fortune smiled too late,
And the poor minstrel-boy had then no wealth,
Save such as poets dream of—love and hope.30
At Fortune's frown, the wreath which Hope entwined
Lay withering, for the dream had been too sweet
For human life; yet never, though his love,
All his fond love, he muttered to the winds;
Though oft he strove, distempered, without joy,
To drown even the remembrance that he lived—
Never a weak complaint escaped his lip,
Save that some tender tones, as he passed on,
Died on his desultory lyre.
No more!40
Forget the shadows of a feverish dream,
That long has passed away! Uplift the eyes
To Him who sits above the water flood,—
To Him who was, and is, and is to come!
Wrapped in the view of ages that are passed,
And marking here the record of earth's doom,
Let us, even now, think that we hear the sound—
The sound of the great flood, the peopled earth
Covering and surging in its solitude!
Let us forget the passing hour, the stir50
Of this tumultuous scene of human things,
And bid imagination lift the veil52
Spread o'er the rolling globe four thousand years!
The vision of the deluge! Hark—a trump!
It was the trump of the Archangel! Stern
He stands, whilst the awakening thunder rolls
Beneath his feet! Stern, and alone, he stands
Upon Imaus' height!
No voice is heard
Of revelry or blasphemy so high!60
He sounds again his trumpet; and the clouds
Come deepening o'er the world!
Why art thou pale?
A strange and fearful stillness is on earth,
As if the shadow of the Almighty passed
O'er the abodes of man, and hushed at once
The song, the shout, the cries of violence,
The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse
Of blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds,
And mocks the deeper thunder!70
Hark! a voice—
Perish! Again the thunder rolls; the earth
Answers, from north to south, from east to west—
Perish! The fountains of the mighty deep
Are broken up; the rushing rains descend,
Like night—deep night; while, momentary seen,
Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse,
Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on,
Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind—
Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared—80
Welter beneath the shadow of his horse!
Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell
Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away,
And then a loud voice answers—Victory!
Victory to the rider and his horse!85
Victory to the rider and his horse!
Ride on:—the ark, majestic and alone
On the wide waste of the careering deep,
Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds,
Is seen. But, lo! the mighty deep has shrunk!90
The ark, from its terrific voyage, rests
On Ararat. The raven is sent forth,—
Send out the dove, and as her wings far off
Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds,
Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song:—