this priceless power, new-fall'n on me,
And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved,
A most pernicious art, that may, perchance,
Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear?
My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me?
Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand,
Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?

MABEL.

I trust in thee, my love, with perfect faith--
Am I not as the floating gossamer,
Steering through ether on thy guiding breath?
Am I not as the clay within thy hand,
Taking the shape and image of thy thought?
Heed not these idle tongues, that launch their doubts
In erring love against thy watchful care.
That which thou doest I accept with joy;
I wait for thee as waits a full-sail'd bark
The coming breeze to waft it o'er the sea.

ORAN.

Fear not! I do well think no peril lies
Within this power, but virtue of rare worth,
Else nevermore its wand had waved o'er thee.--
Tell me, dost bring no memory back to Earth
Of all these glorious wanderings above?
No certain visions of the hidden things
Thou seest in that far mystic spirit-land?

MABEL.

Nay! it must be as thou dost tell me oft,
The soul doth lose its secrets at Earth's gate,
And all the blinding glories it hath known
Shed but their mystic influence over life.
Therefore, it may be, 'tis I nought retain
Of that which passeth in these hours of trance.

ORAN.

Yet strive once more to grasp the fleeting dreams,
Else shall I doubt that which I fondly hope.--
Sleep, love, and let thy spirit bask awhile
In Heaven's own sunshine;--yet forget not me!

[_Makes passes over her, which shortly sink
her into a state of trance._

'Tis done! she's free! and now this lovely frame
Lies tenantless, a casket whose pure gems
Now sparkle 'mid the opal lights of Heaven.
This earth seems very lone and cold to me
Now she is absent, though a little space!
My heart goes restless wandering around,
Seeking her through old haunts and vacant nooks,
Like one who, waking from some troubled dream,
Findeth his love soft stolen from his side,
And straightway seeketh in a dim amaze
All through the moonlight for her straying feet.

[_A pause._

Where art thou, O my dove! about the sky?
Ruffling thy breast across what honey breeze?
Flashing white pinions 'gainst the golden sun,
That fain would nest thee on his ardent breast?
Art thou soft floating through the