THE SLEEPER.

At midnight, in the month of June, I
stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate
vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her
golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop
by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically Into the
universal valley. The rosemary nods upon
the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast, The
ruin moulders into rest; Looking like
Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber
seems to take, And would not, for the
world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and lo!
where lies (Her casement open to the
skies) Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right— This
window open to the night? The wanton
airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly
through the lattice drop— The bodiless
airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy
chamber in and out, And wave the curtain
canopy So fitfully—so fearfully— Above
the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which
thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er
the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts
the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady
dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what
art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art
come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to
these garden trees! Strange is thy
pallor! strange thy dress! Strange,
above all, thy length of tress, And this
all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven
have her in its sacred keep! This
chamber changed for one more holy, This
bed for one more melancholy, I pray to
God that she may lie Forever with
unopened eye, While the dim sheeted
ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may
the worms about her creep! Far in the
forest, dim and old, For her may some
tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft
hath flung its black And winged pannels
fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the
crested palls, Of her grand family
funerals— Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown, In
childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb
from out whose sounding door She ne'er
shall force an echo more, Thrilling to
think, poor child of sin! It was the
dead who groaned within.

 

A DREAM.

In visions of the dark night ⁠I have
dreamed of joy departed— But a waking
dream of life and light ⁠Hath left me
broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day ⁠To him
whose eyes are cast On things around him
with a ray ⁠Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream, ⁠While
all the world were chiding, Hath cheered
me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit
guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and
night, ⁠So trembled from afar— What
could there be more purely bright ⁠In
Truth's day-star?

 SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.

1

Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid
dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone Not
one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine
hour of secrecy:

2

Be silent in that solitude ⁠Which is not
loneliness—for then The spirits of the
dead who stood ⁠In life before thee are
again In death around thee—and their
will Shall then overshadow thee: be
still.

3

For the night—tho' clear—shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down, From
their high thrones in the Heaven, With
light like Hope to mortals given— But
their red orbs, without beam, To thy
weariness shall seem As a burning and a
fever Which would cling to thee for
ever:

4

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish
Now are visions ne'er to vanish— From
thy spirit shall they pass No more—like
dew-drop from the grass:

5

The breeze—the breath of God—is still
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken, Is a
symbol and a token— How it hangs upon
the trees, A mystery of mysteries! —

 



BRIDAL BALLAD

The ring is on my hand, And the wreath
is on my brow; Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command, And I am happy
now.

And my lord he loves me well; But, when
first he breathed his vow, I felt my
bosom swell — For the words rang as a
knell, And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell, And who is
happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me, And he
kissed my pallid brow, While a reverie
came o'er me, And to the church-yard
bore me, And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie, "Oh, I am
happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken, And this
the plighted vow, And, though my faith
be broken, And, though my heart be
broken, Here is a ring, as token That I
am happy now!

Would God I could awaken! For I dream I
know not how! And my soul is sorely
shaken Lest an evil step be taken, —
Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be
happy now.

THE VALLEY OF UNREST.

Once it smiled a silent dell Where the
people did not dwell; They had gone unto
the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed
stars, Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers, In the
midst of which all day The red sun-light
lazily lay. Now each visiter shall
confess The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless— Nothing
save the airs that brood Over the magic
solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred
those trees That palpitate like the
chill seas Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the
violets there that lie In myriad types
of the human eye— Over the lilies there
that wave And weep above a nameless
grave! They wave:—from out their
fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in
drops. They weep:—from off their
delicate stems Perennial tears descend
in gems. TAMERLANE.

I.

I HAVE sent for thee, holy friar; But
'twas not with the drunken hope, Which
is but agony of desire To shun the fate,
with which to cope Is more than crime
may dare to dream, That I have call'd
thee at this hour: Such, father, is not
my theme— Nor am I mad, to deem that
power Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in— I
would not call thee fool, old man. But
hope is not a gift of thine; If I can
hope (O God! I can) It falls from an
eternal shrine.

II.

⁠The grey wall of this gaudy tower Grows
dim around me—death is near. I had not
thought, until this hour When passing
from the earth, that ear Of any, were it
not the shade Of one whom in life I made
All mystery but a simple name, Might
know the secret of a spirit Bow'd down
in sorrow, and in shame.— Shame, said'st
thou?

⁠Ay, I did inherit That hated portion,
with the fame, The worldly glory, which
has shown A demon-light around my
throne, Scorching my sear'd heart with a
pain Not Hell shall make me fear
again.

III.

⁠I have not always been as now— The
fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and
won usurpingly— Ay—the same heritage
hath given Rome to the Cæsar—this to me;
The heirdom of a kingly mind— And a
proud spirit, which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.

⁠In mountain air I first drew life; The
mists of the Taglay have shed (2)
Nightly their dews on my young head; And
my brain drank their venom then, When
after day of perilous strife With
chamois, I would seize his den And
slumber, in my pride of power, The
infant monarch of the hour— For, with
the mountain dew by night, My soul
imbibed unhallow'd feeling; And I would
feel its essence stealing In dreams upon
me—while the light Flashing from cloud
that hover'd o'er, Would seem to my half
closing eye The pageantry of monarchy!
And the deep thunder's echoing roar Came
hurriedly upon me, telling Of war, and
tumult, where my voice, My own voice,
silly child! was swelling (O how would
my wild heart rejoice And leap within me
at the cry) The battle cry of victory!

*****

IV.

⁠The rain came down upon my head But
barely shelter'd—and the wind Pass'd
quickly o'er me—but my mind Was
maddening—for 'twas man that shed
Laurels upon me—and the rush, The
torrent of the chilly air Gurgled in my
pleased ear the crush Of empires, with
the captive's prayer, The hum of
suitors, the mix'd tone Of flattery
round a sovereign's throne.

⁠The storm had ceased—and I awoke— Its
spirit cradled me to sleep, And as it
pass'd me by, there broke Strange light
upon me, tho' it were My soul in mystery
to steep: For I was not as I had been;
The child of Nature, without care, Or
thought, save of the passing scene.—

V.

⁠My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny, which men Have
deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature—be it so: But, father,
there lived one who, then— Then, in my
boyhood, when their fire Burn'd with a
still intenser glow; (For passion must
with youth expire) Even then, who deem'd
this iron heart In woman's weakness had
a part.

⁠I have no words, alas! to tell The
loveliness of loving well! Nor would I
dare attempt to trace The breathing
beauty of a face, Which even to my
impassion'd mind, Leaves not its memory
behind. In spring of life have ye ne'er
dwelt Some object of delight upon, With
steadfast eye, till ye have felt The
earth reel—and the vision gone? And I
have held to memory's eye One object—and
but one—until Its very form hath pass'd
me by, But left its influence with me
stilL

VI.

⁠'Tis not to thee that I should name—
Thou canst not—wouldst not dare to think
The magic empire of a flame Which even
upon this perilous brink Hath fix'd my
soul, tho' unforgiven, By what it lost
for passion—Heaven. I loved—and O, how
tenderly! Yes! she [was] worthy of all
love! Such as in infancy was mine, Tho'
then its passion could not be: 'Twas
such as angel minds above Might envy—her
young heart the shrine On which my every
hope and thought Were incense—then a
goodly gift— For they were childish,
without sin, Pure as her young example
taught; Why did I leave it and adrift,
Trust to the fickle star within?

VII.

⁠We grew in age and love together,
Roaming the forest and the wild; My
breast her shield in wintry weather, And
when the friendly sunshine smiled And
she would mark the opening skies, I saw
no Heaven but in her eyes— Even
childhood knows the human heart; For
when, in sunshine and in smiles, From
all our little cares apart, Laughing at
her half silly wiles, I'd throw me on
her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit
out in tears, She'd look up in my
wilder'd eye— There was no need to speak
the rest— No need to quiet her kind
fears— She did not ask the reason why.

⁠The hallow'd memory of those years
Comes o'er me in these lonely hours,
And, with sweet loveliness, appears As
perfume of strange summer flowers; Of
flowers which we have known before In
infancy, which seen, recall To mind—not
flowers alone—but more, Our earthly
life, and love—and all.

VIII.

⁠Yes! she was worthy of all love! Even
such as from the accursed time My spirit
with the tempest strove, When on the
mountain peak alone, Ambition lent it a
new tone, And bade it first to dream of
crime, My frenzy to her bosom taught: We
still were young: no purer thought Dwelt
in a seraph's breast than thine;(3) For
passionate love is still divine: I loved
her as an angel might With ray of the
all living light Which blazes upon Edis'
shrine.(4) It is not surely sin to name,
With such as mine—that mystic flame, I
had no being but in thee! The world with
all its train of bright And happy beauty
(for to me All was an undefined
delight), The world—its joy—its share of
pain Which I felt not—its bodied forms
Of varied being, which contain The
bodiless spirits of the storms, The
sunshine, and the calm—the ideal And
fleeting vanities of dreams, Fearfully
beautiful! the real Nothings of mid-day
waking life— Of an enchanted life, which
seems, Now as I look back, the strife Of
some ill demon, with a power Which left
me in an evil hour, All that I felt, or
saw, or thought, Crowding, confused
became (With thine unearthly beauty
fraught) Thou—and the nothing of a
name.

IX.

⁠The passionate spirit which hath known,
And deeply felt the silent tone Of its
own self supremacy,— (I speak thus
openly to thee, 'Twere folly now to veil
a thought With which this aching breast
is fraught) The soul which feels its
innate right— The mystic empire and high
power Given by the energetic might Of
Genius, at its natal hour; Which knows
(believe me at this time, When falsehood
were a tenfold crime, There is a power
in the high spirit To know the fate it
will inherit) The soul, which knows such
power, will still Find Pride the ruler
of its will.

⁠Yes! I was proud—and ye who know The
magic of that meaning word, So oft
perverted, will bestow Your scorn,
perhaps, when ye have heard That the
proud spirit had been broken, The proud
heart burst in agony At one upbraiding
word or token Of her that heart's
idolatry— I was ambitious—have ye known
Its fiery passion?—ye have not— A
cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the
world, as all my own, And murmur'd at
such lowly lot! But it had pass'd me as
a dream Which, of light step, flies with
the dew, That kindling thought—did not
the beam Of Beauty, which did guide it
through The livelong summer day, oppress
My mind with double loveliness—

*****

X.

⁠We walk'd together on the crown Of a
high mountain, which look'd down Afar
from its proud natural towers Of rock
and forest, on the hills— The dwindled
hills, whence amid bowers Her own fair
hand had rear'd around, Gush'd
shoutingly a thousand rills, Which as it
were, in fairy bound Embraced two
hamlets—those our own— Peacefully
happy—yet alone—

*****

⁠I spoke to her of power and pride— But
mystically, in such guise, That she
might deem it nought beside The moment's
converse; in her eyes I read (perhaps
too carelessly) A mingled feeling with
my own; The flush on her bright cheek,
to me, Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well, that I should let it be A
light in the dark wild, alone.

XI.

⁠There—in that hour—a thought came o'er
My mind, it had not known before— To
leave her while we both were young,— To
follow my high fate among The strife of
nations, and redeem The idle words,
which, as a dream Now sounded to her
heedless ear— I held no doubt—I knew no
fear Of peril in my wild career; To gain
an empire, and throw down As nuptial
dowry—a queen's crown, The only feeling
which possest, With her own image, my
fond breast— Who, that had known the
secret thought Of a young peasant's
bosom then, Had deem'd him, in
compassion, aught But one, whom fantasy
had led Astray from reason—Among men
Ambition is chain'd down—nor fed (As in
the desert, where the grand, The wild,
the beautiful, conspire With their own
breath to fan its fire) With thoughts
such feeling can command; Uncheck'd by
sarcasm, and scorn Of those, who hardly
will conceive That any should become
"great," born (5) In their own
sphere—will not believe That they shall
stoop in life to one Whom daily they are
wont to see Familiarly—whom Fortune's
sun Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon,
Lowly—and of their own degree—

XII.

⁠I pictured to my fancy's eye Her
silent, deep astonishment, When, a few
fleeting years gone by, (For short the
time my high hope lent To its most
desperate intent,) She might recall in
him, whom Fame Had gilded with a
conqueror's name, (With glory—such as
might inspire Perforce, a passing
thought of one, Whom she had deemed in
his own fire Withered and blasted; who
had gone A traitor, violate of the truth
So plighted in his early youth,) Her own
Alexis, who should plight (6) The love
he plighted then—again. And raise his
infancy's delight. The bride and queen
of Tamerlane.—

XIII.

⁠One noon of a bright summer's day I
pass'd from out the matted bower Where
in a deep, still slumber lay My Ada. In
that peaceful hour, A silent gaze was my
farewell. I had no other solace—then To
awake her, and a falsehood tell Of a
feign'd journey, were again To trust the
weakness of my heart To her soft
thrilling voice: To part Thus, haply,
while in sleep she dream'd Of long
delight, nor yet had deem'd Awake, that
I had held a thought Of parting, were
with madness fraught; I knew not woman's
heart, alas! Tho' loved, and loving—let
it pass.—

XIV.

⁠I went from out the matted bower, And
hurried madly on my way: And felt, with
every flying hour, That bore me from my
home, more gay; There is of earth an
agony Which, ideal, still may be The
worst ill of mortality. 'Tis bliss, in
its own reality, Too real, to his breast
who lives Not within himself but gives A
portion of his willing soul To God, and
to the great whole— To him, whose loving
spirit will dwell With Nature, in her
wild paths; tell Of her wondrous ways,
and telling bless Her overpowering
loveliness! A more than agony to him
Whose failing sight will grow dim With
its own living gaze upon That loveliness
around: the sun— The blue sky—the misty
light Of the pale cloud therein, whose
hue Is grace to its heavenly bed of
blue; Dim! tho' looking on all bright! O
God! when the thoughts that may not pass
Will burst upon him, and alas! For the
flight on Earth to Fancy given, There
are no words—unless of Heaven.

XV.

*****

⁠Look round thee now on Samarcand,(7) Is
she not queen of earth? her pride Above
all cities? in her hand Their destinies?
with all beside Of glory, which the
world hath known? Stands she not proudly
and alone? And who her sovereign? Timur,
he (8) Whom the astonish'd earth hath
seen, With victory, on victory,
Redoubling age! and more, I ween, The
Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame. (9) And
now what has he? what! a name. The sound
of revelry by night Comes o'er me, with
the mingled voice Of many with a breast
as light, As if 'twere not the dying
hour Of one, in whom they did rejoice—
As in a leader, haply—Power Its venom
secretly imparts; Nothing have I with
human hearts.

XVI.

⁠When Fortune mark'd me for her own, And
my proud hopes had reach'd a throne (It
boots me not, good friar, to tell A tale
the world but knows too well, How by
what hidden deeds of might, I clamber'd
to the tottering height,) I still was
young; and well I ween My spirit what it
e'er had been. My eyes were still on
pomp and power, My wilder'd heart was
far away In valleys of the wild Taglay,
In mine own Ada's matted bower. I dwelt
not long in Samarcand Ere, in a
peasant's lowly guise, I sought my
long-abandon'd land; By sunset did its
mountains rise In dusky grandeur to my
eyes: But as I wander'd on the way My
heart sunk with the sun's ray. To him,
who still would gaze upon The glory of
the summer sun, There comes, when that
sun will from him part, A sullen
hopelessness of heart. That soul will
hate the evening mist So often lovely,
and will list To the sound of the coming
darkness (known To those whose spirits
hearken) [10] as one Who in a dream of
night would fly, But cannot, from a
danger nigh. What though the moon—the
silvery moon— Shine on his path, in her
high noon; Her smile is chilly, and her
beam In that time of dreariness will
seem As the portrait of one after death;
A likeness taken when the breath Of
young life, and the fire o' the eye, Had
lately been, but had pass'd by. 'Tis
thus when the lovely summer sun Of our
boyhood, his course hath run: For all we
live to know—is known; And all we seek
to keep—hath flown; With the noon-day
beauty, which is all. Let life, then, as
the day-flower, fall— The transient,
passionate day-flower,(11) Withering at
the evening hour.

XVII.

⁠I reach'd my home—my home no more— For
all was flown that made it so— I pass'd
from out its mossy door, In vacant
idleness of woe. There met me on its
threshold stone A mountain hunter, I had
known In childhood, but he knew me not.
Something he spoke of the old cot: It
had seen better days, he said; There
rose a fountain once, and there Full
many a fair flower raised its head: But
she who rear'd them was long dead, And
in such follies had no part, What was
there left me now? despair— A kingdom
for a broken—heart. FUGITIVE PIECES.

TO — —

I SAW thee on the bridal day, ⁠When a
burning blush came o'er thee, Tho'
Happiness around thee lay, ⁠The world
all love before thee.

And, in thine eye, the kindling light
⁠Of young passion free Was all on earth,
my chained sight ⁠Of Loveliness might
see.

That blush, I ween, was maiden shame;
⁠As such it well may pass: Tho' its glow
hath raised a fiercer flame ⁠In the
breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day. ⁠When
that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Tho' Happiness around thee lay; ⁠The
world all Love before thee.—

DREAMS.

OH! that my young life were a lasting
dream! My spirit not awakening, till the
beam Of an Eternity should bring the
morrow. Yes! tho' that long dream were
of hopeless sorrow, 'Twere better than
the cold reality Of waking life, to him
whose heart must be, And hath been
still, upon the lovely earth, A chaos of
deep passion, from his birth. But should
it be—that dream eternally Continuing—as
dreams have been to me In my young
boyhood —should it thus be given, 'Twere
folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd when the sun was
bright I' the summer sky, in dreams of
living light, And loveliness,—have left
my very heart In climes of mine
imagining, apart From mine own home,
with beings that have been Of mine own
thought—what more could I have seen?
'Twas once—and only once—and the wild
hour From my remembrance shall not
pass—some power Or spell had bound
me—'twas the chilly wind Came o'er me in
the night, and left behind Its image on
my spirit—or the moon Shone on my
slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly—or
the stars—howe'er it was That dream was
as that night-wind—let it pass.

⁠I have been happy, tho' [but] in a
dream. I have been happy—and I love the
theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring
of life As in that fleeting, shadowy,
misty strife Of semblance with reality
which brings To the delirious eye, more
lovely things Of Paradise and Love—and
all our own! Than young Hope in his
sunniest hour hath known.

VISIT OF THE DEAD.

* * * *

THY soul shall find itself alone— Alone
of all on earth—unknown The cause—but
none are near to pry Into thine hour of
secrecy. Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then The
spirits of the dead, who stood In life
before thee, are again In death around
thee, and their will Shall then
o'ershadow thee—be still: For the night,
tho' clear, shall frown; And the stars
shall look not down From their thrones,
in the dark heaven, With light like Hope
to mortals given. But their red orbs,
without beam, To thy withering heart
shall seem As a burning, and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever. But
'twill leave thee, as each star In the
morning light afar Will fly thee—and
vanish: —But its thought thou canst not
banish. The breath of God will be still;
And the mist upon the hill By that
summer breeze unbroken Shall charm
thee—as a token, And a symbol which
shall be Secrecy in thee.

EVENING STAR.

TWAS noontide of summer. ⁠And mid-time
of night; ⁠And stars, in their orbits,
⁠Shone pale, thro' the light Of the
brighter, cold moon, ⁠'Mid planets her
slaves, Herself in the Heavens, ⁠Her
beam on the waves. ⁠I gazed awhile ⁠On
her cold smile; Too cold—too cold for
me— ⁠There pass'd, as a shroud, ⁠A
fleecy cloud, And I turn'd away to thee.
⁠Proud Evening Star, ⁠In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be; ⁠For joy
to my heart ⁠Is the proad part Thou
bearest in heaven at night. ⁠And more I
admire ⁠Thy distant fire, Than that
colder, lowly light.

IMITATION.

A DARK unfathom'd tide Of interminable
pride— A mystery, and a dream, Should my
early life seem; I say that dream was
fraught With a wild, and waking thought
Of beings that have been, Which my
spirit hath not seen, Had I let them
pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let
none of earth inherit That vision on my
spirit; Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul: For that
bright hope at last And that light time
have past. And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it pass'd on: I care not
tho' it perish With a thought I then did
cherish.

How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne; Her
woods—her wilds—her mountains—the
intense Reply of HERS to OUR
intelligence!

1.

IN youth have I known one with whom the
Earth In secret communing held—as he
with it. In daylight, and in beauty from
his birth: Whose fervid, flickering
torch of life was lit From the sun and
stars, whence he had drawn forth A
passionate light—such for his spirit was
fit— And yet that spirit knew not, in
the hour Of its own fervour, what had
o'er it power.

2.

Perhaps it may be that my mind is
wrought To a fever by the moonbeam that
hangs o'er. But I will half believe that
wild light fraught With more of
sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever
told—or is it of a thought The
unembodied essence, and no more, That
with a quickening spell doth o'er us
pass As dew of the night-time o'er the
summer grass?

3.

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th'
expanding eye To the loved object—so the
tear to the lid Will start, which lately
slept in apathy? And yet it need not
be—(that object) hid From us in life—but
common—which doth lie Each hour before
us—but then only, bid With a strange
sound, as of a harp-string broken. To
awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token

4.

Of what in other worlds shall be—and
given In beauty by our God, to those
alone Who otherwise would fall from life
and Heaven Drawn by their heart's
passion, and that tone, That high tone
of the spirit which hath striven Tho'
not with Faith—with godliness—whose
throne With desperate energy 't hath
beaten down; Wearing its own deep
feeling as a crown.

A WILDER'D being from my birth, ⁠My
spirit spurn'd control, But now, abroad
on the wide earth. ⁠Where wanderest
thou, my soul?

In visions of the dark night ⁠I have
dream'd of joy departed— But a waking
dream of life and light ⁠Hath left me
broken-hearted.

And what is not a dream by day ⁠To him
whose eyes are cast On things around him
with a ray ⁠Turn'd back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream, ⁠While
all the world were chiding, Hath cheered
me as a lovely beam ⁠A lonely spirit
guiding—

What tho' that light, thro' misty night
⁠So dimly shone afar— "What could there
be more purely bright ⁠In Truth's
day-star?

THE happiest day—the happiest hour ⁠My
sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power, ⁠I
feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween; ⁠But
they have vanished long, alas! The
visions of my youth have been— ⁠But let
them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
⁠Another brow may even inherit The venom
thou hast pour'd on me— ⁠Be still, my
spirit.

The happiest day—the happiest hour ⁠Mine
eyes shall see—have ever seen, The
brightest glance of pride and power, ⁠I
feel—have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
⁠Now offer'd, with the pain Even then I
felt—that brightest hour ⁠I would not
live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy. ⁠And as
it flutter'd—fell An essence—powerful to
destroy ⁠A soul that knew it well.

THE LAKE.

IN youth's spring it was my lot To haunt
of the wide earth a spot The which I
could not love the less; So lovely was
the loneliness Of a wild lake, with
black rock bound, And the tall pines
that tower'd around. But when the night
had thrown her pall Upon that spot—as
upon all, And the wind would pass me by
In its stilly melody, My infant spirit
would awake To the terror of the lone
lake. Yet that terror was not fright—
But a tremulous delight, And a feeling
undefined, Springing from a darken'd
mind. Death was in that poison'd wave
And in its gulf a fitting grave For him
who thence could solace bring To his
dark imagining; Whose wildering thought
could even make An Eden of that dim
lake.

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in
parting from you now, Thus much let me
avow— You are not wrong, who deem That
my days have been a dream; Yet if hope
has flown away In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore
the less gone? All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a
surf-tormented shore, And I hold within
my hand Grains of the golden sand— How
few! yet how they creep Through my
fingers to the deep, While I weep—while
I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with
a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave? Is all that
we see or seem But a dream within a
dream?