All selfish thoughts were merged in one wild fear That she for whose dear sake my heart had bled, Rather than her sweet eyes should know one tear, Was passing from me; that she might be dead; And, dying, had been sorely grieved with me, Because I made no answer to her plea.
“O, ship, that sailest slowly, slowly on, Make haste before a wasting life is gone! Make haste that I may catch a fleeting breath! And true in life, be true e’en unto death.
“O, ship, sail on! and bear me o’er the tide To her for whom my woman’s heart once died. Sail, sail, O, ship! for she hath need of me, And I would know what her last wish may be! I have been true, so true, through all the past. Sail, sail, O, ship! I would not fail at last.”
So prayed my heart still o’er, and ever o’er, Until the weary lagging ship reached shore. All sad with fears that I had come too late, By that strange source whence men communicate, Though miles on miles of space between them lie, I spoke with Vivian: “Does she live? Reply.” The answer came. “She lives, but hasten, friend! Her journey draweth swiftly to its end.”
Ah me! ah me! when each remembered spot, My own dear home, the lane that led to his— The fields, the woods, the lake, burst on my sight, Oh! then, Self rose up in asserting might; Oh, then, my bursting heart all else forgot, But those sweet early years of lost delight, Of hope, defeat, of anguish and of bliss.
I have a theory, vague, undefined, That each emotion of the human mind, Love, pain or passion, sorrow or despair, Is a live spirit, dwelling in the air, Until it takes possession of some breast; And, when at length, grown weary of unrest, We rise up strong and cast it from the heart, And bid it leave us wholly, and depart, It does not die, it cannot die; but goes And mingles with some restless wind that blows About the region where it had its birth. And though we wander over all the earth, That spirit waits, and lingers, year by year, Invisible and clothèd like the air, Hoping that we may yet again draw near, And it may haply take us unaware, And once more find safe shelter in the breast It stirred of old with pleasure or unrest.
Told by my heart, and wholly positive, Some old emotion long had ceased to live; That, were it called, it could not hear or come, Because it was so voiceless and so dumb, Yet, passing where it first sprang into life, My very soul has suddenly been rife With all the old intensity of feeling. It seemed a living spirit, which came stealing Into my heart from that departed day; Exiled emotion, which I fancied clay.