X.

    Not in the peopled solitude¹ Of cities, does true love belong； For it is of A thoughtful mood, And thought abides² not with the throng³. Nor is it won by glittering wealth, By cunning, nor device of art, Unheralded, by silent stealth, It wins its way into the heart. And once the soul has known its dream, Thenceforth its empire is supreme⁴, For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, Are bowed by its subduing⁵ thrill. My love, alas⁶！ not born to bless, Had birth in nature's loneliness； And held, at first, as a sweet spell, It grew in strength, till it became A spirit, which I could not quell,——A quenchless——a volcanic⁷ flame, Which, without pause, or time of rest, Must burn for ever in my breast. Yet how ecstatically sweet, Was its first soft tumultuous beat！ I little thought that beat could be The harbinger of misery⁸； And daily, when the morning beam Dawned earliest on wood and stream, When, from each brake and bush were heard, The hum of bee, and chirp⁹ of bird, From these, earth's matin songs, my ear Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear—— A voice, whose tones the very air Seemed trembling with delight to bear；

    From leafy wood, and misty¹⁰ stream, From bush, and brake, and morning beam, Would turn away my wandering eye, A dearer object to descry¹¹, Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, Grew part of hearing and of sight.