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[97] And now there comes that phantom of the past,
     Rousing my soul with its elastic prime:
I see thee still as when I saw thee last,—--
     In that glad time,—

Radiant in beauty of the form and mind,
     And young renown of academic strife,
Joy lay around, a stainless life behind,
     Before thee, life;

A high-priest standing in the temple's space
     Ere yet the sacrificial rites begin,
A giant waiting for the glorious race
     He is to win.

We thought eternal tablets would record
     Thy name with theirs who, since the world began,
With an immortal strength, and toil and word,
     Have wrought for man.

We thought—alas! what thought we not of good,
     Of all that hope or promise e'er begat;
Of all save early doom—O friend! how could
     We think of that?

We could not see the shadows close thee round;
     We could not know prophetic cypress shed
Funereal perfume for the wreath that bound
     “So dear a head.”

We could not think the light that from afar
     We deemed prelusive of the coming sun
Was but the parting radiance of his car,
     When day is done.

But now I know too well a light's withdrawn
     That made this gloomy earth for me more fair;
A perfume's fled and gentle influence gone
     That soothed my care.

And yet not wholly gone: through life's sad vale
     Thy soul—now prompting to resemble thee,
And now in sad monition when I fail—
     Shall walk with me.

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