It may be that my sleeping breath

Will shake, with painful visions wrung;

And, in the awful trance of death,

A stranger's name be on my tongue.

Ye phantoms, born of bitter blood,

Ye ghosts of passion, lean and worn,

Ye terrors of a lonely mood,

What do you here on a wedding morn?

For, as the dawning sweet and fast

Through all the heaven spreads and flows,

Within life's discord rude and vast,

Love's subtle music grows and grows.

And lighten❜d is the heavy curse,
And clearer is the weary road;

The very worm the sea-weeds nurse

Is cared for by the Eternal God.

My love, pale blossom of the snow,

Has pierced earth wet with wintry showers,

O may it drink the sun, and blow,

And be follow'd by all the year of flowers!

Black Bayard from the stable bring;
The rain is o'er, the wind is down,
Round stirring farms the birds will sing,
The dawn stand in the sleeping town,
Within an hour. This is her gate,
Her sodden roses droop in night,
And-emblem of my happy fate-

In one dear window there is light.

The dawn is oozing pale and cold
Through the damp east for many a mile;
When half my tale of life is told
Grim-featured Time begins to smile.
Last star of night that lingerest yet
In that long rift of rainy grey,
Gather thy wasted splendours, set,
And die into my wedding-day.

A BOY'S POEM.