He came across the meadow-pass, That summer eve of eves-- The sunlight streamed along the grass, And glanced amid the leaves; And from the shrubbery below, and from the garden trees, He heard the thrushes' music flow, And humming of the bees; The garden-gate was swung apart-- The space was brief between; But there, for throbbing of his heart, He paused perforce to lean. He leaned upon the garden-gate; He looked, and scarce he breathed; Within the little porch she sate, With woodbine overwreathed; Her eyes upon her work were bent, Unconscious who was nigh; But oft the needle slowly went, And oft did idle lie; And ever to her lips arose Sweet fragments faintly sung, But ever, ere the notes could close, She hushed them on her tongue. Her fancies as they come and go, Her pure face speaks the while, For now it is a flitting glow, And now a breaking smile; And now it is a graver shade When holier thoughts are there-- An Angel's pinion might be stayed To see a sight so fair; But still they hid her looks of light, Those downcast eyelids pale-- Two lovely clouds so silken white, Two lovelier stars that veil. The sun at length his burning edge Had rested on the hill, And save one thrush from out the hedge, Both bower and grove were still. The sun had almost bade farewell; But one reluctant ray Still loved within that porch to dwell, And charméd there to stay-- It stole aslant the pear-tree bough, And through the woodbine fringe, And kissed the maiden's neck and brow, And bathed her in its tinge. Oh! beauty of my heart, he said, Oh! darling, darling mine, Was ever light of evening shed On loveliness like thine? Why should I ever leave this spot, But gaze until I die? A moment from that bursting thought She felt his footsteps nigh. One sudden, lifted glance--but one, A tremor and a start, So gently was their greeting done That who would guess their heart. Long, long the sun had sunken down, And all his golden trail Had died away to lines of brown, In duskier hues that fail. The grasshopper was chirping shrill-- No other living sound Accompanied the tiny rill That gurgled under ground-- No other living sound, unless Some spirit bent to hear Low words of human tenderness, And mingling whispers near. The stars, like pallid gems at first, Deep in the liquid sky, Now forth upon the darkness burst, Sole kings and lights on high; In splendour, myriad-fold, supreme-- No rival moonlight strove, Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam, Nor more majestic Jove. But what if hearts there beat that night That recked not of the skies, Or only felt their imaged light In one another's eyes. And if two worlds of hidden thought And fostered passion met, Which, passing human language, sought And found an utterance yet; And if they trembled like to flowers That droop across a stream, The while the silent starry hours Glide o'er them like a dream; And if, when came the parting time, They faltered still and clung; What is it all?--an ancient rhyme Ten thousand times besung-- That part of Paradise which man Without the portal knows-- Which hath been since the world began, And shall be till its close.
1846.
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