Chapter III

Down by the brook which separates the farms, Is a great rock that leans above the stream, And seems some monster of the Saurian day, That coming to the water's edge to drink, Was petrified, and so is leaning still. Upon its back a week ago I sat, And dreamed of Grace Bernard, and watched the brook; And while I dreamed there came within the dream A premonition of what yet would be. The future's face, forever turned away, Now seemed reverted, and its backward look Was bent on me.

They took a faulty cast Of Shakespeare's features after he was dead. I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.

And this the premonition that was mine-- A perfect premonition full and clear-- And as I know the persons it concerns, I cannot think it all improbable, So write it down, that when the time has passed, I may compare the facts with what is here. And yet I scarcely should have written this, Had I not seen his haunting face to-day-- That face which I had never seen before, Except in my one dream upon the rock That leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.

The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe, May darkly understand that death is near, Yet bravely marches on to destiny. I too behold a shadow in my path; I too go on, nor waver in my way.

THE PREMONITION.

I.

Far off, across the turbulence of waves, I seem to see a wife upon her knees, Her supplicating hands outstretched to one Who strikes her with coarse blows on cheek and breast. He is her husband, and he leaves her there, And takes her jewels and her only purse, And in a ship embarks for other shores. His is the face that I have seen to-day-- A handsome face whatever be its sins: A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes, A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth; Long, fine black hair, which idly falls about Shoulders that stoop from labor over books; Withal a high and intellectual brow, Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.