My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. 
  ‘Well, father,’ quoth the imp, ’we’ve done our part. 
We found him.’ 
                 And she, wholly girlish now,
  Laid her young hand on his with lovely art
And sweet excuses.  O!  I made my vow
  I would all dare, such life did warm my heart;
We journeyed, all the air with scents of price
Was laden, and the goal was Paradise.

When that the Moors betook them to their sand,
  Their domination over in fair Spain,
Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land,
  And took the key in hope to come again. 
On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand,
  The keys, but not the might to use, remain;
Is there such house in some blest land for me? 
I can, I will, I do reach down the key.

A country conquered oft, and long before,
  Of generations aye ordained to win;
If mine the power, I will unlock the door. 
  Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. 
What, did the crescent wane!  Yet man is more,
  And love achieves because to heaven akin. 
O life! to hear again that wandering bell,
And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle.

Full oft I want the sacred throated bird,
  Over our limitless waste of light which spoke
The spirit of the call my fathers heard,
  Saying ‘Let us pray,’ and old world echoes woke
Ethereal minster bells that still averr’d,
  And with their phantom notes th’ all silence broke. 
’The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. 
Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.’

To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apart
  To meet; a few short days, a maiden won. 
’Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart,
  Betaking me to countries of the sun.’ 
’What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart,
  Make me to like them.’ 
                          ‘Love, it shall be done,’
‘What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.’ 
‘It is the flame-tree’s challenge to yon scarlet skies.’

’Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell! 
  What would it? (’Toll.’) An air-hung sacred call,
Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell’—­
 ‘Toll’—­’Toll.’ 
                   The longed-for voice, but ah, withal
I felt, I knew, it was my father’s knell
  That touched and could the over-sense enthrall. 
Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep
As theirs who ’neath his native towers by Avon sleep.

If love and death are ever reconciled,
  ’T is when the old lie down for the great rest. 
We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild
  That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed
With audible silence; and great hills inisled
  Rose out as from a sea.  Consoling, blest
And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread,
And tall rock lilies towered above her head.

* * * * *

Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue,
  The shade below yon passion plant that lies,
And very sweet is love, and sweet are you,
  My little children dear, with violet eyes,
And sweet about the dawn to hear anew
  The sacred monotone of peace arise. 
Love, ’t is thy welcome from the air-hung bell,
Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle.