MY DREAMS, 
 

 
MY 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 LOUISA S. M CORD. 
 
 Clarior e tenebris. 
 
 Tis to create, and in creating, live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 
 With form, our fancy; gaining as we give 
 The Life we image, e en as I do now. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. Canto 3d. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 
 1848. 
 
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 
 
 BY CAREY AND HART, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District 
 of Pennsylvania. 
 
 C. SHERMAN, PRINTER, 
 
 10 St. James Street. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 OFT in my bosom the self-flattering thought 
 Has roused itself" I too, may be a poet." 
 And again, o ercome by my own weakness, 
 Have I shrunk before the blighting consciousness, 
 The damning fear, that I am but as one 
 Amidst the crowd, an atom in the sunbeam ; 
 Nothing more than all the triflers round me. 
 And yet there is a hope, it will not die ; 
 If I would crush it, still it struggles here, 
 And in my heart it whispers, thou hast caught 
 Perchance, one gleam of light from that sunbeam, 
 Which others may not see. I long to know 
 If there is in my soul one ray, one gleam 
 Of true poetic fervour. 1 have seen 
 
Vlll DEDICATION. 
 
 TTiee, with a kind indulgence, read my lines, 
 
 Penned with a trembling hand, a tearful eye, 
 
 And I have drunk thy hope-inspiring praise, 
 
 And hugged myself therein. But out, alas ! 
 
 On my ill-founded hopes ! Too partial judge, 
 
 Thou can st not say, if twere the man s, 
 
 Or but the parent s heart, which felt and throbbed 
 
 Its answers back to my heart s throbbing struggles. 
 
 Wise in all other points, thou might sj; forget 
 
 Thy wisdom in the follies of thy child. 
 
 Doubting and trembling still, I cast my lines 
 
 Then here, before the world ; and it must judge 
 
 Twixt me, and my own struggling thoughts, which rise, 
 
 Now in Hope s wild commotion, and now sink 
 
 Back, back, upon myself and nothingness. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication To my Father, - - - - -7 
 
 Proem Dreams, - - - - .13 
 
 The World of Dreams, - - - - 17 
 
 Peace! be still! - - 25 
 
 The Wandering Tear, ... - 29 
 
 The Voice of Years, ... 37 
 
 I Dreamed of a World, - - 42 
 
 Who dares to say they Died ? - 45 
 
 The Home of Hope, ... - 48 
 
 The Voice of the Star, - 54 
 
 His Life was like, etc. - - 59 
 
 The Dreams, .... 62 
 
 Spirit Watchers, .... - 63 
 
 Poor Nannie, ... 70 
 
 The Dream of Life, - - - - - - 81 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Zephyr and the Flower, ... 84 
 
 The Bloodstained Rose, . . - - - 86 
 
 The Poet s Dream, - - - - 96 
 
 The Poet s Home, - - - - - - 98 
 
 The First Beam of Light, .... 101 
 
 My Dead, - .... 105 
 
 Ye re Born to Die, ..... 108 
 
 The Fire-fly, - - - - - - 113 
 
 The Sunbeam Sprite, - - . - 118 
 
 Fallen Angels, 127 
 
 The First Star of Evening, .... 129 
 
 Combat of the Powers of Good and Evil, - - -131 
 
 The Star which followed Me, - - - .137 
 
 The Daughters of Hope, - - 139 
 
 The Falling Star, - - 143 
 
 The Comet, - -146 
 
 The Garden of Experience, ... 149 
 
 Love, Wisdom, and Folly, ... - 153 
 
 Tis but Thee, Love, only Thee, - .160 
 
 Birth of the Evergreen, - -162 
 
 The Soul of a Sound, - - 168 
 
 Her Hope is in the Grave, - - - - - 171 
 
 Forget Thee! ... .174 
 
 To a Fly, - 176 
 
 My Dream Child, 181 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 Spirit of the Storm, - - - - - - 183 
 
 Pretty Fanny, ...... 185 
 
 The Bright Sun, - 191 
 
 The Mirage, - 193 
 
 The Village Churchyard, - - 195 
 
 Oh ! would that I could dream on still, ... 209 
 
PROEM. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 OF what? For what? Dreams, fancies, airy no 
 things ! To be caught at, as the child follows his fly 
 ing bubbles, because their bright colours please him, 
 because they amuse and make happy an hour which 
 might be gaped away in discontented uneasiness. And 
 all that drives away discontent is good and useful. 
 Murmuring Discontent, the mother of many a vice, is 
 in itself a sin against high Heaven. Tis good, tis right, 
 tis virtuous, to enjoy ; and God smiles when man can 
 forget his ills, and love the sun that warms him. I can 
 sometimes fancy that the kind Heaven which watches 
 over us, loves to distract our cares, as the fond mother 
 amuses her sick child, by the bright toys she scatters in 
 its way ; and I love to cherish the thought, and bow 
 with reverential gratitude, to the parental kindness which 
 2 
 
14 MY DREAMS. 
 
 would amuse and soothe away ills, of which its wisdom 
 alone, can know the cause and end. 
 
 Scoff not then at my dreams. What is life but a 
 dream ? One long dream, broken, if you will, by fitful, 
 feverish starts, when something whispers the sleeper, 
 " Fool, thou art Fancy s plaything." He doubts for an 
 instant, but the vision pleases more than the reality, 
 he woos its return, and after a turn and a sigh, soothes 
 himself again, to Fancy s gentle lullaby. The wisdom 
 which can but hear the folly of her words, is only too 
 wise a nursling ; as the infant who scoffs at the fairy 
 tale, which delights and enchains the attention of its 
 companions, but boasts its precocious genius, at the ex 
 pense of an enjoyment which no knowledge can repay. 
 Tis sweet to be deceived ; tis sweet to deceive ourselves, 
 to fancy a Heaven, tho we must at last wake to Earth ; 
 tis sweet to lull ourselves to sleep by Fancy s whispered 
 bushings. Tis sweet to dream. Sleeping or waking, 
 tis sweet to forget the world and ourselves, in airy 
 visions, which are not, which cannot be ; which even as 
 we dream, we know them false. But we love them, tho 
 they die with the gleam which gave them birth, as the 
 
PROEM. 15 
 
 rainbow fades with the sunbeam, which called into life 
 its evanescent hues. There is a pain in seeing them 
 fade, 
 
 But, let us choose 
 The brighter hues, 
 What though their colours fade, 
 When frowns the past, 
 To Lethe cast 
 Its every darker shade. 
 
MY DREAMS. 
 
 THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 
 
 THERE is a world of visions and of dreams, 
 
 Where the unshackled spirit seems to roam 
 
 Free from the dross of Earth. From judgment loosed, 
 
 Imagination plays her boldest pranks ; 
 
 Now laughs, now weeps, and mocks us with her freaks. 
 
 She beckons us, and on we follow still, 
 
 Successful scale high Heaven s conquered heights, 
 
 Glory in worlds subdued, which hardly gained, 
 
 Again she drags us down, and scenes of wo 
 
 And darkness close around us. Demons scowl ; 
 
 Spirits of mischief, mocking, gather near, 
 
 Mopping and mowing, o er our fallen might, 
 
 E en as men mock misfortune s agony, 
 
 And envy scoffs o er power s broken wand. 
 
 Tis thus Imagination, queen of dreams, 
 
 Makes us her playthings. 
 
 2* 
 
18 MY DREAMS. 
 
 On yon bed of straw 
 
 See the world s conqueror lie, at least in dreams. 
 The Macedonian hero ne er surpassed 
 The feats of arms his conquering hand performs, 
 And Caesar s laurels crown his monarch brow. 
 Day s faintest dawn must wake him to his toil, 
 His labour-harden d hand must guide the plough. 
 
 And look, where hunger s victim shivering lies : 
 E en here, will hovering Fancy sometimes smile, 
 His last breath was a groan of agony. 
 From whence the smile which brightens now his features? 
 His dreams unlock the miser s iron-bound chests, 
 Bid gentle pity take a human form. 
 Now kindness hand his gnawing want supplies, 
 And plenty decks his long ungarnished board. 
 
 But now, behold ! E en fancy frowns on wo, 
 And while the tempting viands he would reach, 
 Like Tantalus, he finds them shun his grasp, 
 And that deep moan speaks once more misery s reign. 
 
 Pass on. Asmodeus-like, we ll wander round, 
 Watch o er each dreamer, while her varied tricks 
 Mad fancy plays, and in strange motley robed 
 
THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 19 
 
 Of joy and wo, shows us with wizard glass 
 
 A world of ever-changing shadows, strown 
 
 So like the fickle flittings of our own, 
 
 We dream it still the same ; tho oft she bids 
 
 Us soar, in thought, above reality, 
 
 Showing us scenes of bliss too bright for hope, 
 
 Then veils them in despair. 
 
 The infant mind, 
 
 She fills with dreams of manhood s riper years, 
 And brings decrepit age to smiling scenes 
 Of thoughtless childhood back. 
 
 The dying man, 
 
 By lingering sickness wasted, sees once more 
 Health smile upon him, and life beckon on 
 To varied scenes which formed his yesterday, 
 And promise a to-morrow. Or, perhaps, 
 Imagination still a fairer picture shows, 
 Wanders through scenes from which our waking thoughts 
 Must shrink reluctant back. With fearless step 
 She dares to tread thy realms, Eternity! 
 And gathering tales of bliss, and heavenly joy, 
 Brings to the sick man s breast forgotten hope. 
 
20 MY DREAMS. 
 
 ^r 
 
 Then sometimes in her play, she lays a load 
 
 Of double grief upon the sufferer, 
 
 And makes him dream Hell s torments are let loose. 
 
 He groans in flames, and gasps in agony, 
 
 While muttering phantoms mock his fainting breath. 
 
 Off, fiends ! Kind Heaven, dispel the direful vision ! 
 
 Mark, how the slumberer wakes. His haggard eye 
 
 Turns slowly round, dreading, yet seeking still 
 
 The phantom fiends, whose fearful shrieks 
 
 Still echo in his ear. His shortening breaths 
 
 Leave him nor strength, nor power, to know how false 
 
 Their shadowy shapes. He sinks, while his weak gasps, 
 
 By terror hastened, strangle his painful sighs, 
 
 And with one struggling gurgle, one wild stare, 
 
 His frightful dream is done. If onward roams 
 
 The fancy-beckoned spirit, tis in scenes 
 
 Detached from yon cold clod, whose stiffening form 
 
 Sinks fast to loathed corruption. Let it rot. 
 
 It is humanity. The end of life, 
 
 The end of dreams. 
 
 Turn, and again behold 
 A spectre-haunted pillow. The murderer sees 
 
THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 21 
 
 ^f 
 
 His bloody victims frown ; now numbers o er 
 
 His tales of sin, and, half-exulting, acts 
 
 Again, the heartless scenes. Anon, he starts, 
 
 Cold sweat-drops damp his brow, for vengeance frowns, 
 
 And fancy s hell surrounds him : muttered prayers, 
 
 And mingling curses, speak his anxious thought, 
 
 Which half would soothe, half dares offended Heaven. 
 
 And see where softer, brighter, visions woo, 
 To scenes so differing from these hellish views 
 We scarce can deem the painter s hand the same. 
 See, where the goddess of this dreamy world, 
 Strows rainbow hues, and Heaven-beaming light. 
 The lover dreams ecstatic joys, and bliss, 
 Too bright, too bright, for earth. His waking eye 
 Must see the Houri of his visions fade. 
 And though the dream may cast its sunny light, 
 Thro waking speculations, fancy weaves, 
 Too soon she tires of smiling, and the views 
 So brightly sketched, fade as Experience turns 
 Her leaden eye, and coldly points Reality. 
 As fades the flower neath Sol s too vivid ray, 
 As shrinks the dew-drop from his parching heat, 
 
22 MY DREAMS. 
 
 As timorous day to darkness trembling cedes, 
 So fade these glimpses of Elysian realms. 
 As Dagon- worshippers be wept their God, 
 His broken idol s shattered wrecks he mourns. 
 
 And yonder pallid brow, which gently droops, 
 As t were a lily withering on its stem, 
 As by a moonbeam lit, across it flits 
 A look of calm, to its worn sadness strange, 
 As dewdrop neath the noon of summer s sun ; 
 So softly mild, we dare not call it joy ; 
 And yet so stilly beautiful, we look, 
 And wonder what could bring its quiet there. 
 See, from the grave no spectre-terrors spring, 
 But forms, as t were of angels come to earth. 
 The heavenly pictures of those things she loved, 
 And loving, lost, and losing, wept, until 
 That brow is faded, spirit-like, and wan, 
 E en like to those whom now once more she dares 
 To see, and love, and fancy still her own. 
 
 Hark ! to the clanking fetters ! Yon dark cell 
 Scarce gives the prisoner room, to lab ring turn 
 His wearied limbs, benumbed with loathed rest. 
 
THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 23 
 
 4 
 
 Through his murk dungeon s darkness, scarce can pierce 
 Day s brightest sunlit ray, with glimmering light. 
 Behold his chains burst with Herculean strength ; 
 Once more the sun in all his brilliance shines, 
 And festive scenes reign through th extended hall. 
 E en in his den of sorrow he may dream, 
 And bask in mercy s smile. The morrow comes ; 
 What tho it bring th unmitigated doom, 
 The word of death, the sentence, " Blood for blood?" 
 To night, fond sleep, the Lethe of our woes, 
 Lulls him to peace and calm forgetfulness. 
 The hollow grating of his dungeon bolt 
 Must murder hope, and wake him to himself, 
 And with the new-born day, despair must rise ; 
 Still of his noiu, the quiet calm is blessed. 
 Fancy, thou nurse, alike of joy and wo, 
 Strange mocker, whom we love, e en while thou frown st ; 
 Who through each scene of life, or weep st, or smil st, 
 To paint each scene with colours all thine own, 
 How vision-led we tread this world of sleep ! 
 Here, rudderless, we re tossed on fancy s wave, 
 And in one moment s little course oft find 
 
24 MY DREAMS. 
 
 A world of happiness or misery. 
 
 Strange picture of a life, whose tedious course 
 
 But lengthens out our dream. Unfetter d roams 
 
 The wandering spirit 1 No. Tis bound, fast bound 
 
 In adamantine fetters. Soaring oft 
 
 Above these clayey realms, how quickly dragged 
 
 Back to its prison-home ! We live, we dream, 
 
 And then we die. What more? Ask st thou what more? 
 
 Sleep, wave thy downy pinions, let me dream, 
 
 I dare not think, what more. 
 
PEACE! BE STILL! 
 
 IN the summer breeze s lowest sigh, 
 
 In the gentlest tone of the murmuring rill, 
 
 Softly the words come floating by, 
 " Be still ! hush ! peace ! be still !" 
 
 When hushed beneath the sky of even, 
 Tired Nature lulls herself to sleep, 
 
 And only stars, like eyes of Heaven, 
 
 Look down, to watch the mourner weep ; 
 
 Methinks that with their beam there falls, 
 A tone the throbbing heart to fill, 
 
 Gently, it to the sufferer calls, 
 
 " Be still ! hush ! peace ! be still !" 
 
 And when May s freshest flowers are springing, 
 And balmiest airs their sweets distil, 
 
 The softest Zephyrs aye are singing, 
 " Be still ! hush ! peace ! be still !" 
 3 
 
26 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Tt seems as twere kind Nature wooing 
 Her child to slumber on her breast, 
 
 And all its wearying cares subduing, 
 Hushing the tired thing to rest. 
 
 Tis the fond mother s lullaby, 
 Bidding the wayward one repose, 
 
 Soothing its sobbing bosom s sigh, 
 An opiate for its restless woes. 
 
 Again I dream myself a child, 
 
 My aching brow on Earth reclining, 
 
 Fancy, once more, a Mother s mild 
 Indulgent eye is o er me shining. 
 
 And thus there is a kind of joy 
 To nestle there my wearied head, 
 
 Dreaming tis but a broken toy, 
 
 O er which my scalding tears are shed. 
 
 Once more I hear the soothing tones 
 
 Which lulled me to my childhood s sleep, 
 
PEACE ! BE STILL ! 27 
 
 Once more are mine but painless moans, 
 Once more tis almost joy to weep. 
 
 For once more comes that magic sound, 
 
 Which used to bid my bosom thrill, 
 Once more I hear it whispering round, 
 
 " Be still ! hush ! peace ! be still !" 
 
 My Mother ! In my infant home 
 
 Twas thou who mad st these accents dear, 
 
 Now but from Heaven such tones may come, 
 For now, my Mother, Thou art there. 
 
 And hark! with storm-subduing power, 
 
 The mandate of high heaven s will, 
 Raised midst the Ocean s angry roar, 
 
 The conquering words are, " Peace ! be still !" 
 
 The waters know their Maker s call, 
 
 The raging tempest owns his sway, 
 The mountain billows trembling fall, 
 
 In stifled roars, the winds obey. 
 
28 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " Hush ! Peace ! be still !" Oh ! God of Heaven, 
 My heart still let this mandate fill ; 
 
 Care, passion, sorrow, thou hast given, 
 Whisper them" Peace ! be still I" 
 
THE WANDERING TEAR. 
 
 THERE was a youth once woo d a Lady, 
 But she spurned him away ; Heigho ! 
 
 And he mourned, until to die he was ready, 
 But she heeded him not, Heigho ! 
 
 And he knelt, and he prayed for Love s warm smile, 
 
 But she turned her away, Heigho ! 
 And that youth why did he not die, the while 1 
 
 He was sad enough. Heigho ! 
 
 Again he sued, not for love, but pity, 
 
 And he looked so sad, heigho ! 
 Though she did not love, she was not haughty, 
 
 And she dropped a tear, heigho ! 
 
 And tell me, you who to love have learned, 
 Was it strange that he smiled ? Heigho ! 
 
 He watched that tear, and forgot he was spurned, 
 And fancied she sighed heigho ! 
 
30 MY DREAMS. 
 
 That tear, that tear twas a gem to him, 
 
 And he sought to grasp it falling ; 
 But it fell in a gently murmuring stream, 
 And, like the sunshine of a dream, 
 
 Twas gone, and past recalling, 
 
 And that youth, full many a tear he shed 
 
 In the streamlet past him sweeping, 
 For he deemed that there was in that treasure fled, 
 A charm, perchance, that might have plead 
 His cause with that lady weeping. 
 
 So dear it was to him, he deemed 
 
 So far above compare, 
 That gold, and gems, and jewels seemed 
 But glittering nothings ; he esteemed 
 
 All lightly by that tear. 
 
 And what can he bring to that lady fair ? 
 
 What offering can he cast 
 At her feet to sue acceptance there ? 
 Gems and toys he brings most rare, 
 
 And the richest, are still the last. 
 
THE WANDERING TEAR. 31 
 
 But that lady s love he cannot buy ; 
 
 And she turns from his gifts away ; 
 For she feels that in her bosom lie 
 Treasures too pure for gold to buy, 
 
 That such gifts can ne er repay. 
 
 And far he sought, and near he sought 
 
 For something her heart to move ; 
 And what was there in the world, he thought, 
 So pure, so simple with joy, so fraught, 
 
 As that tear, though it spoke not of love. 
 
 For though love was not there, there was pity, and that 
 
 Is a balm to the lover s torn heart ; 
 For, if worn with anguish, lamenting his fate, 
 He finds pity weeping, the chances are great 
 
 That love in his sorrows takes part. 
 
 But while he long, midst jewels rare, 
 
 Its unmatched value sought, 
 Where then had it fled, that priceless tear, 
 That glittering gem, to him so dear, 
 
 So valued, though unbought ? 
 
32 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Of the murmuring stream, where first it fell, 
 
 It joined the plaintive tone ; 
 And as it swept along, twould tell 
 Its sorrowing tale, and oft would dwell 
 
 On its grief, that twas alone. 
 
 For, though with mingled waters flowing, 
 
 It passed from scene to scene, 
 Oh ! say, while kindness e en bestowing, 
 Midst crowds, is the wanderer not showing 
 
 To his home that he still doth lean I 
 
 And sad was the note of that exiled tear, 
 
 On the mimic billows tossed, 
 Of the streamlet, as, wandering here and there, 
 It murmured, " Oh ! give me back what I hold dear, 
 
 Guide me to the home I have lost." 
 
 Now swifter flow th increasing waves ; 
 
 The wandering drop is driven 
 On, till a turbid river laves 
 A widened shore, but still it craves 
 
 The home it lost its heaven. 
 
THE WANDERING TEAR. 33 
 
 And now, it hoarsely roaring cries 
 
 Amidst the cataract s foam ; 
 And wildly o er the precipice, 
 Midst riot dashing, still it sighs, 
 
 And still demands its home. 
 
 * 
 Now, wearied of its furious course, 
 
 Midst ocean s billows lost, 
 The waters round it murmur hoarse, 
 As (holding of past storms discourse) 
 
 Their might and power they boast. 
 
 And still that tear, in plaintive tone, 
 
 The murmuring concourse joins, 
 While ocean vaunts its victories gone : 
 To its triumphant voice, a moan, 
 
 In mingling, rejoins. 
 
 But lo ! with sullen threatening roar, 
 
 The angry billows rise ; 
 And now, with devastating power, 
 They furious lash the frightened shore, 
 
 Now dare the startled skies. 
 
34 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Lost midst the whirl of waters, where 
 
 Hath fled the wanderer now ? 
 Swept by the dashing spray afar, 
 Wishing but rest, that lowly tear, 
 
 It seeks a home as low. 
 
 
 But now, whilst on the shore it lies, 
 
 Fast sinking neath the earth, 
 By sunbeams raised, to Heaven it flies, 
 Bosomed in clouds that seek the skies, 
 
 And claim celestial birth. 
 
 But not such is the home for which still it would long, 
 
 Where its hopes and its fears have birth ; 
 Though bright are the scenes that it wanders among, 
 Oh ! not to such scenes do its wishes belong, 
 They all centre and lean upon earth. 
 
 It was born for earth s sorrow, how then can it dare 
 To hope or to share Heaven s peace ? 
 
 Bright Heaven was never the home of the tear ; 
 
 It ne er can be aught but a wanderer there, 
 And an outcast, e en mingling in bliss. 
 
THE WANDERING TEAR. 35 
 
 Back, back, to the earth the forlorn one is driven, 
 
 To share in its sorrows and care ; 
 And welcome to grief is the outcast from Heaven ; 
 To its anguish, at least, that one solace is given, 
 
 The comfort of wo, is a tear. 
 
 Back, back to the earth, as a refuge, it flies, 
 
 In a dewdrop from Heaven it falls ; 
 On a flowret s bosom the wanderer lies, 
 And the youth, as that glittering jewel he spies, 
 
 At once the lost tear-drop recalls. 
 
 And quick, with his dew-ladened blossom, he goes 
 
 To the fair one, and humbly pleading, 
 He tells her how Heaven weeps over our woes, 
 And shows how the flowret its blushing head bows, 
 As though in his cause interceding. 
 
 And he bids her take back that pure tear-drop again, 
 
 Which once she bestowed on his woes ; 
 He tells her how long he has sought it in vain, 
 He tells her how now he has found it with pain, 
 And he offers the tear-sprinkled rose. 
 
36 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And the lady bent over that flower as he knelt, 
 
 And she spoke not a word, but she sighed ; 
 And he asked her, if nothing her hard heart could melt? 
 If no shadow of love in her bosom had dwelt ? 
 
 To his question, the flowret replied. 
 
 % 
 
 For, as slowly she raised from that flowret her eye, 
 
 No more was his passion reproved ; 
 Two sister-drops now on its moist bosom lie ; 
 As he gazes, he hears them breathed on by a sigh, 
 
 And he knows that, at last, he is loved. 
 
THE VOICE OF YEARS. 
 
 IT floated by, on the passing breeze, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 It breathed o er ocean, it wandered through earth, 
 It spoke of the time when worlds had birth, 
 When the spirit of God moved over the sea, 
 When earth was only a thing to be. 
 And it sighed, as it passed on that passing breeze, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
 From ocean it came on a murmuring wave, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And it spoke of the time ere the birth of light ; 
 When earth was hushed, neath the ocean s might, 
 And the waters rolled, and the dashing roar, 
 Of the angered surge owned not yet the power, 
 Which whispers in that murmuring wave 
 
 The voice of years. 
 4 
 
38 MY DREAMS. 
 
 From earth it came, from her inmost deep, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 It murmured forth with the bubbling stream, 
 It came like the sound of a long-past dream 
 And it spoke of the hour ere Time had birth, 
 When living thing moved not yet on earth, 
 And, solemnly sad, it rose from the deep, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
 From heaven it came, on a beam of light, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And it spoke of a God who reigned alone, 
 Who waked the stars, who lit the Sun. 
 As it glanced o er mountain, and river, and wood, 
 It spoke of the good and the wonderful God ; 
 And it whispered to praise that God of Light, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
 It howled in the storm as it threatening passed, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And it spoke of ruin, and fiercest might ; 
 Of angry fiends, and of things of night ; 
 
THE VOICE OF YEARS. 39 
 
 But raging, as o er the Earth it strode, 
 I knelt and I prayed to the merciful God, 
 And methought it less angrily howled as it passed, 
 The voice of years. 
 
 And it came from yon moss-grown ruin gray, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And it spoke of myself, and the years which were gone, 
 Of hopes which were blighted, and joys which were flown ; 
 Of the wreck of so much that was bright and was fair; 
 And it made me sad, and I wept to hear, 
 As it came from yon moss-grown ruin gray, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
 And it rose from the grave, with the song of death, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And I shuddered to hear the tale it told, 
 Of blighted youth, and hearts grown cold ; 
 And anguish and sorrow which crept to the grave, 
 To hide from the spoiler the wound which he gave. 
 And sadly it rose from that home of death, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
40 MY DREAMS. 
 
 But again it passed on the passing breeze, 
 
 The voice of years : 
 
 And it spoke of a God, who watched us here, 
 Who heard the sigh, and who saw the tear ; 
 And it spoke of mercy, and not of wo ; 
 There was love and hope in its whispering low ; 
 And I listened to catch, on that passing breeze, 
 
 The voice of years. 
 
 And it spoke of a pain which might not last, 
 
 That voice of years : 
 
 And it taught me to think, that the God who gave 
 The breath of life, could wake from the grave ; 
 And it taught me to see that this beautiful earth 
 Was not only made to give sorrow birth ; 
 And it whispered, that mercy must reign at last, 
 
 That voice of years. 
 
 And strangely methought, as it floated by, 
 
 That voice of years, 
 
 Seemed fraught with a tone from some higher sphere, 
 It whispered around me, that God was near ; 
 
THE VOICE OF YEARS. 41 
 
 He spoke from the sunbeam ; He spoke from the wave; 
 He spoke from the ruin ; He spoke from the grave; 
 Twas the voice of God, as it floated by, 
 That voice of years. 
 
I DREAMED OF A WORLD. 
 
 I DREAMED of a world where the flowers never faded, 
 And rainbows for ever encircled its skies, 
 
 And its sunshine by night s gloomy veil was ne er shaded, 
 And the race who dwelt in it was one that ne er dies. 
 
 And are there worlds which do not change 1 
 Are there worlds where love may cling 1 
 
 Still to one, unforced to range, 
 All its fond affections bring ? 
 
 Are there worlds where those we love, 
 
 Need not pine away, and die ? 
 Where the heart which will not rove, 
 
 May, loving, live eternally ? 
 
 Are there worlds where hearts may beat, 
 And not time their throbs to pain ? 
 
 Where they fondly answering meet, 
 Fearing not to part again ? 
 
I DREAMED OF A WORLD. 43 
 
 Are there worlds where passion brings 
 
 Not one poison on his breath ? 
 Where no breeze envenomed flings, 
 
 Round our steps, the fear of death ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me the world which I dreamed of was true, 
 And, love, come and seek for its pleasures with me ; 
 
 Oh ! tell me the world which I dreamed of was true, 
 And, dearest, I ll flee to its bosom with thee. 
 
 But tell me of no happiest lot, 
 
 Where thou might st fail to share my bliss, 
 The brightest world, where thou art not, 
 
 I d leave, to weep and die in this. 
 
 To know, that thou wert lone and sad, 
 
 Were worse than tears or pain of mine, 
 And struggling vainly to be glad, 
 
 I d find a misery in thine. 
 
 
 
 If there s no world where love for ever, 
 May bind our hearts in constant bliss, 
 
44 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Our pangs, at least, no power may sever 
 And we may love, and die, in this. 
 
 Then tell me, thou canst still love on, 
 
 And still I ll linger here with thee, 
 Nor seek its pain or death to shun, 
 
 For, dearest, they are shared with thee. 
 
 Then away with the bright world I dreamed of, for there 
 Twas sadly and vainly to find thee I strove ; 
 
 Leave me only this world of the sorrow and tear, 
 And here, I will cling to, and die with thee, love. 
 
WHO DARES TO SAY THEY DIED? 
 
 WHO dares to say they died ? 
 
 The Great who sunk to rest. 
 What though his might stern death hath tried! 
 Who dares to say that these have died? 
 
 Their memories on the past, 
 Rise with a heightened power. 
 No halo of an hour, 
 But glory s sunbeam, from the grave, 
 Clinging to what he seeks to save 
 From dark oblivion, and the night 
 Which comes with sacrilegious blight, 
 
 To doom their names to death. 
 They rise untarnished from the tomb, 
 And e en the grave must lose its gloom, 
 
 Stifle its pestilential breath, 
 To bid them stand forth purely bright. 
 O er names like these, how sinks its might ! 
 Neath its dread power they cannot lie, 
 For glory will not let them die. 
 
46 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Who dares to say they died ? 
 
 The good, whose deeds still last, 
 As moonbeams through the darkness guide 
 The wanderer, when the day has died, 
 
 To light us o er the waste ; 
 Which round us, wide extending 
 As desert wild, is blending 
 Creations wrought by Terror s breath, 
 The phantoms strange of Hell and Death, 
 With every new-born hour whose light 
 Shines sweetly on th expecting sight, 
 
 To wake our thoughts to hope. 
 As darkness mingles with its beams, 
 And vice, with feebler powers, seems 
 
 Victoriously to cope, 
 These rise to smile, and bid us know 
 That virtue lingers still below, 
 While misery half forgets to sigh, 
 Dreaming that such could never die. 
 
 Who dares to say they died 1 
 
 Those whom to love we ve learned. 
 
WHO DARES TO SAY THEY DIED. 47 
 
 They re gone but yet our hearts have tried 
 Vainly to think the loved ones died, 
 
 And throbbing still, have turned 
 To long-accustomed feeling, 
 Which will not seek for healing, 
 But loves to cling, e en in the grave, 
 To the same forms to whom it gave 
 Its fond affections, all unchecked. 
 What, though all shattered, it be wrecked 
 
 By Disappointment s blast? 
 The shadows of the loved are here ! 
 See ! from the grave their forms appear, 
 
 The visions of the past ; 
 It springs to meet them as they rise ; 
 E en Death forgets his power, and flies, 
 Nor longer seeks to turn aside 
 That love which will not think they died. 
 
THE HOME OF HOPE. 
 
 IN olden times, when Hope was young, 
 
 She planted a garden fair ; 
 Bright flowers she scattered all along 
 
 Its paths ; no thorns were there. 
 
 And when twas decked with all that s fair, 
 
 She called on men to come ; 
 " Come then," she said, " dwell with me here, 
 
 And make this spot your home. 
 
 " Here care and sorrow ne er shall tread, 
 
 Ne er in my paths shall stray ; 
 And here no tears shall e er be shed 
 
 I ll drive them all away." 
 
 Men heard, and thronging to the spot, 
 
 Smiled as Hope called them in ; 
 And happy did they deem their lot, 
 
 So bright a spot to win. 
 
THE HOME OF HOPE. 49 
 
 And wand ring there, with Hope they smiled, 
 
 Forgot what sorrow meant, 
 And many a weary hour beguiled, 
 
 Which else with grief were spent. 
 
 Hope loved mankind was glad to see 
 
 How well her plan succeeded, 
 And all so happy seemed to be, 
 
 She now no evil dreaded. 
 
 But ah ! in one unhappy hour, 
 
 Hope left her charge, and slept, 
 And while she slept, an evil power, 
 
 Into her garden crept. 
 
 Fear came, and opening wide the gate, 
 
 Let Care and Suffering in ; 
 And Grief and Sorrow were not late 
 
 To follow in their train. 
 
 
 
 And then Regret, by Memory led, 
 To join the concourse came, 
 5 
 
50 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And Pain, and Agony, and Dread, 
 Stepped in, a place to claim. 
 
 And e en Despair, put in his foot, 
 
 But linger d at the gate, 
 As if to watch the other s lot, 
 
 And on their motions wait. 
 
 And then alas ! poor Mankind wept, 
 To see that garden spoiled ; 
 
 For labouring on, while Hope still slept, 
 To ruin it they toiled. 
 
 And not one flower they left uncrushed, 
 And not one leaf unblighted ; 
 
 For all lay withering in the dust, 
 Where Grief and Sorrow lighted. 
 
 Hope, wakened by the cries of men, 
 To aid them now had flown, 
 
 But, looking round, scarce knew again, 
 The garden for her own. 
 
THE HOME OF HOPE. 51 
 
 For all its beauties now were fled, 
 
 It was no more Hope s home, 
 When every evil man could dread, 
 
 Dared boldly there to roam. 
 
 When Fear went scattering thorns around, 
 
 And where one bud still bloomed, 
 And Hope would save it, Memory frowned, 
 
 Fear muttered, " It is doomed." 
 
 Hope struggled vainly to drive off 
 
 Th intruders, begg d they d leave her, 
 
 But all in vain, a frown, a scoff, 
 Was all that they would give her. 
 
 And then she thought she d brave them there, 
 
 And laughed as if to slight 
 Their power ; but on her fell Despair 
 
 Looked, and she fled in fright. 
 
 * 
 
 She fled, she thought not how, nor where ; 
 She knew not what she did, 
 
52 MY DREAMS. 
 
 She only sought to shun Despair, 
 And onward, trembling, fled. 
 
 Meanwhile, her garden unattended, 
 No single flower would ope ; 
 
 Man seeing all his joys thus ended, 
 Soon fled in search of Hope. 
 
 And seeking long the world around, 
 
 At last one happy day 
 The frightened fugitive he found, 
 
 Where trembling, hid she lay ; 
 
 And pleased to meet with one she knew, 
 " Oh ! help me now," she said, 
 
 " Let me but stay and dwell with you ; 
 Grant me for once your aid." 
 
 While Man, as glad, his part soon chose, 
 Received her to his breast ; 
 
 She, in his bosom nestling close, 
 There seemed content to rest. 
 
THE HOME OF HOPE. 53 
 
 And since Hope has no other home, 
 
 And seeks not to depart ; 
 Though Sorrow, Fear, and Suffering come, 
 
 Her home is still Man s heart. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE STAR. 
 
 I LOOKED upon the Heaven ; it seemed 
 To menace earth, e en while it moaned ; 
 
 Its threatening clouds with terrors teemed, 
 And in their big wombs tempests groaned. 
 
 The storm, the howling winds were there ; 
 
 The rattling thunder s sullen roar ; 
 With the sharp, vivid lightning s glare, 
 
 And of heaven s floods the ceaseless store. 
 
 And one dark, threatening cloud hung there, 
 Like suffering, lowering o er man s life ; 
 
 For ever dark, for ever near, 
 Seeming with every evil rife. 
 
 To watch its gloomy darkness lower, 
 A still, mysterious pleasure gave ; 
 
 Twas grand, twas awful in its power, 
 But silent, as th all conquering grave. 
 
* 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE STAR. 55 
 
 As in a dreamy thoughtfulness, 
 
 I looked upon its gloomy might, 
 The darkness, suddenly, was less, 
 
 Twas broken by a ray of light. 
 
 Th o erhanging shroud was torn in two, 
 And o er its conquered gloom there shone 
 
 A star, like Hope, to suffering true, 
 
 Which shines on ; though it shine, alone. 
 
 It shone in victory, cairn and bright 
 Its lustre, steady, constant, clear, 
 
 1 loved to look upon its light, 
 
 To me I scarce knew why twas dear. 
 
 Perhaps that midst the starry host, 
 That one, in youth I learned to love ; 
 
 Twas that one, which it pleased me most, 
 To watch in its bright course above. 
 
 That one, I watch, and call it mine, 
 And fancy that a mystic tie 
 
56 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Its brilliance with my life did twine ; 
 That in its rays my fate must lie. 
 
 And now, when brightly clear it shone, 
 As though to break misfortune s spell, 
 
 I fancied still that twas mine own, 
 And dreamed that it my fate could tell. 
 
 I looked upon its clear, bright face, 
 
 " Oh ! genius of my life," I cried, 
 " Tis thou, my fate through life can st trace, 
 
 Tell it ; in thee, I would confide. 
 
 " Thou knowest what of good or ill 
 
 Hangs o er the years which form my life ; 
 
 To read their course, give me the skill, 
 Whether in joy, or wo, or strife." 
 
 I scarce had finished, ere a voice 
 
 Distinct and soft, fell on my ear ; 
 " Mortal," it said, " hadst thou thy choice, 
 
 ThouMst weep when I should grant thy prayer. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE STAR. 
 
 " Seek not to rend the future s veil, 
 
 Live while thou liv st, and wait thy doom ; 
 
 Take what thou hast, of good or ill, 
 Nor seek to pierce the future s gloom. 
 
 " Each moment which with pleasure s filled, 
 Hail as a gift, kind heaven has sent ; 
 
 When sorrows upon sorrows build, 
 Submissive bow, and be content. 
 
 " To-morrow carries in her lap 
 
 Evils which thou may st have to mourn, 
 Seek not to read the future s map, 
 
 Wait till to-morrow s griefs are born. 
 
 " To-day, to-day, hath ills enough- 
 Then mortal, seek to pierce no farther ; 
 
 And if thy present road be rough, 
 Hope waits to point thee to another. 
 
 
 
 " Listen to her soft whispered tale, 
 She only speaks of what is bright ; 
 
58 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And couldst thou read the future well, 
 
 Thou dst learn, her flattering tale to slight. 
 
 " Then mortal, think not of to-morrow, 
 But listen to Hope s voice alone, 
 
 Hearken to her, if thou rt in sorrow, 
 And if in Joy, to-day s thine own." 
 
HIS LIFE WAS LIKE, ETC. 
 
 His life was like an April day, 
 
 Of mingled smiles and tears, 
 Which sun and cloud, with varying ray, 
 
 Chequered with joys and cares. 
 
 Like sunshine shower, tho tear and smile 
 
 Might mingle in his eye, 
 Young Hope would still each pain beguile, 
 
 And check each rising sigh. 
 
 The cares of youth, oh ! what are they ? 
 
 Forgotten, soon as born, 
 * The cares of age bear hope away, 
 
 And piuiou ic fi onrtrci torn. 
 Oin ci , / ii-ctJ-cr^.. 1 1-* * /?* f.tf / tr Ic-m - 
 
 A misery which glisteneth not 
 As dew within the eye, 
 
60 MY DREAMS. 
 
 It is a misery unfraught 
 
 With plaintive moan or sigh. 
 
 It is a misery still but cold, 
 
 Which grasps and forms the heart 
 
 To Sorrow s hard and roughened mould, 
 Making our life an art ; 
 
 An art, which bids us sigh or smile 
 To please the world, not truth ; 
 
 Unknown the feelings free from guile, 
 Which smiled and wept in youth. 
 
 The still and quiet calm of age, 
 
 The calm of worn-out life, 
 Shows but the wreck of fear and rage, 
 
 Of agony and strife. 
 
 Tis calm, because each feeling crushed, 
 
 Can neither hope nor fear, 
 Each thing we love, may sink to dust, 
 
 And scarcely claim a tear. 
 
HIS LIFE WAS LIKE, ETC. 61 
 
 Tis only youth, whose April day 
 
 Of mingled smiles and tears, 
 May change with every varying ray, 
 
 Of varying hopes and fears. 
 
SHE DREAMS. 
 
 SHE dreams. Oh ! say not tis of love ; 
 
 That eye, so brightly beaming, 
 Knows nought of passion s ardent gaze, 
 Unkindled aye by sensual rays, 
 Pure as yon ether vault above, 
 It knows not passion, knows not love. 
 
 She dreams. But say not love s unknown ; 
 
 That eye, so softly drooping, 
 Has surely seen his shadow near, 
 And half unconscious, lingers there, 
 Where once his fluttering wings have flown, 
 Watching for love, tho still unknown. 
 
 She dreams. Tis not, and yet, tis love 
 In that soft eye is nestling, 
 
 He is not there, nor yet away ; 
 
 He cannot fly, yet dares not stay ; 
 But, lingering, cheats her thoughts to rove, 
 She knows not that she dreams of love. 
 
SPIRIT WATCHERS. 
 
 WATCH ye, ye beings not of earth, 
 Watch ye, o er things of mortal birth ? 
 Watch ye o er the weary way, 
 On which earth-born pilgrims stray ? 
 Watch ye o er the wanderer s tear ? 
 
 Watch ye o er his trembling step ? 
 When he sorrows can ye hear 7 
 
 Spirits, can ye see him weep 1 
 Watch ye for him, spirits ? Say, 
 Watcli ye o er the wanderer s way T 
 
 STAR SPIRIT. 
 
 Rest thee, weary one ; we re watching, 
 Heaven commissioned, stars are burning. 
 
 Thou, thy anxious slumbers, snatching, 
 Broken oft, to heaven still turning, 
 
64 MY DREAMS. 
 
 There, midst beams of glory, readest 
 Comfort, thou in sorrow needest ; 
 There, thy tearful eye may see, 
 Weary one, we watch for thee. 
 
 OCEAN SPIRIT. 
 
 Spirit of the foamy billow, 
 From my ocean-bed, I rise. 
 
 Hear me, on thy restless pillow 
 Answering to yon starlit skies. 
 
 Hear me now, in murmuring numbers, 
 
 Tempt thee on, to tranquil slumbers. 
 
 Hear me, bid thee sleep and rest thee ; 
 
 What tho sorrows have distrest thee : 
 
 Hist ! the music of the sea, 
 
 Is, " Weary one, we watch for thee." 
 
 RIVER SPIRIT. 
 
 The ripple of the dancing stream 
 Woos thee, too, to tranquil dream. 
 
SPIRIT WATCHERS. 
 
 As the bursting of each bubble, 
 On the river s sparkling face, 
 Let it pass, each shadowy trouble, 
 Nor its gloomy course retrace. 
 Weary mourner, cease to weep, 
 Tired, care-worn, sink to sleep, 
 Let thy anxious sorrows be ; 
 Weary one, we watch for thee. 
 
 SUNBEAM SPIRIT. 
 
 Glancing from yon sparkling river, 
 
 Hear me echo back its tone, 
 Heaven s mandate I deliver, 
 
 Troubled spirit, cease thy moan. 
 Pain has found his home on earth, 
 But joy, too, has there his birth ; 
 Mortal, rear its struggling being, 
 Or the young thing will be fleeing. 
 Nurse not wo ; too surely found, 
 He will touch thee in his round ; 
 6* 
 
 05 
 
66 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And yet, not wholly his, for Heaven, 
 Mingled joy and grief has given, 
 Misery is not its decree ; 
 It bids us, tired one, watch for thee. 
 
 WIND SPIRIT. 
 
 Whistling in the storm, 
 
 Sighing in the gale, 
 With a viewless form 
 
 Now rushing through the vale, 
 Now on mountain tops, crushing mightiest trees, 
 Now whispering gently to thee, on the softest breeze. 
 Hear me, from the zephyr stooping, 
 
 As it sighs thro yonder tree ; 
 Raise that eye, so sadly drooping, 
 Wake thy heart again to hoping : 
 From each rustling leaf I speak, 
 Wake to joy, tired mourner, wake, 
 We are watching, still, for thee. 
 
SPIRIT WATCHERS. 67 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 Waked by the winds, we turn to see 
 
 Misery, mortal, on thy brow. 
 Pain and wo, not new to thee, 
 
 Sorrow hugs thee, sad one, now. 
 Mortal, wherefore dost thou weep 1 
 Hush thee, mourner, hush and sleep, 
 While our soothing song shall be, 
 " Weary one, we watch for thee." 
 
 DREAM SPIRIT. 
 
 Hide thee, from this world of care, 
 
 Mortal, sleep. 
 On thy lash tho -hangs the tear, 
 
 Cease to weep. 
 Lulled in tranquil slumbers lie, 
 
 We are here. 
 Angels forms are flitting by, 
 
 Ever near. 
 
68 MY DREA.MS. 
 
 Dream, we ll whisper thee of things 
 Brighter than the world e er brings. 
 Sleep, and we will wake for thee, 
 Visions soft, as dreams may be. 
 Weary wanderer, rest, and we 
 Will be watching still for thee. 
 Guardian angels, round thee hover, . 
 
 Mortal, rest. 
 With their spirit-wings they cover 
 
 Thy torn breast. 
 
 Rest, weary one, for thou art free 
 From harm, whilst these still watch for thee. 
 God is near thee, 
 
 Mortal, sleep. 
 He can hear thee, 
 Sad one, weep. 
 He is watching for thee too, 
 For He pities mortal wo. 
 When yon pallid moonbeams reach thee, 
 Through the night they seek to quell, 
 Tis a sign He sends to teach thee, 
 That He watches for thee still. 
 
SPIRIT WATCHERS. 69 
 
 When the rainbow s Iris hue, 
 Wakes upon thy tearful view, 
 Tis a symbol that He s near thee, 
 When thou prayest, that He can hear thee. 
 When the evening star is glistening, 
 
 Lonely in her early wateh, 
 Tis to show, that He is listening, 
 
 Still thy broken sighs to catch. 
 And when before day s waking ray, 
 The hosts of heaven fade fast away, 
 If the morning-star, still beaming, 
 
 Lingers when the rest are gone, 
 Tis that with its kindly gleaming, 
 
 It would teach, thou rt not alone. 
 Rest thee, then, whate er thy cares, 
 God is near, He sees thy tears. 
 Rest, whate er thy sorrows be, 
 He watches, weary one, for thee. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 
 
 LATE was the hour, and dark the night, 
 Sharply and chill the cold winds blew, 
 
 And gathering clouds bedimmed the light 
 
 Which some faint stars still struggling threw. 
 
 And still as each a cloud o ercasts, 
 And murkier grows the gloomy night, 
 
 Howling their rage upon the wastes, 
 December s blasts are in their might. 
 
 Nature in terror seems to moan ; 
 
 The tardy labourer seeks his home, 
 And shudders, as he hastens on, 
 
 That some through such a night must roam. 
 
 And now upon the blast there seems 
 
 To rise a soft, a plaintive tone. 
 He stops, and listening turns, but deems 
 
 Twas but the wind, and hastens on. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 71 
 
 Again upon his ear it falls, 
 
 Again its soft tone makes him start ; 
 
 It seems a woman s voice that calls 
 For pity from the gentle heart. 
 
 He turns, resolved to face the blast, 
 
 That in its fury threatens death, 
 He shrinks not from the dreary waste ; 
 
 A woman s dying near his path ! 
 
 And as he turns, the thrilling tones 
 
 Again sweep by upon the air. 
 He pauses, though a woman moans ! 
 
 Tis not the tempest bids him fear. 
 
 No ; he has courage which would meet 
 
 The warring elements in arms ; 
 Nor would the sturdy woodman s feet 
 
 Turn back from any mortal harms. 
 
 
 
 But he has heard a whispered tale 
 Of evil Spirits in the gloom ; 
 
72 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Which says, that when they weep and wail, 
 Through midnight storms, tis o er a tomb ; 
 
 An empty tomb, which, ere the morn, 
 They seek to fill with human corse ; 
 
 And weep, that wanderers forlorn 
 
 May yield them to their hellish force : 
 
 Then, wandering through the dreary waste, 
 
 j^Cur}uJ. 
 
 They meet their droary unwept doom, 
 And hear, borne on the wintry blast, 
 
 The dirge which fiends howl o er their tomb. 
 
 Tis this he dreads ; and as the sad 
 
 And plaintive sound once more he hears, 
 
 He turns away his hurried tread, 
 And e en to listen now he fears. 
 
 And hastening on, in whistling winds 
 He fancies still the ghostly wail ; 
 
 Trembling, at last, his cottage finds, 
 And shuddering tells the fearful tale. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 73 
 
 And was it then some demon foul 
 
 Which sought to mock the wanderer s ear ? 
 
 Or yet, some evil damned soul, 
 
 Thirsting his dying groans to hear ? 
 
 Oh no ! that sound was what it seemed, 
 
 A feeble woman s plaintive moan. 
 Nor evil demon, sprite, nor fiend, 
 
 But a poor mortal s dying groan. 
 
 For on that bare and trackless field, 
 There lay a being^ fair, but frail ; 
 Whose bosom once with pride had swelled, 
 
 /*Wt 
 
 At what her tears 4*4 now bewail. 
 /. 
 
 Alas ! her fatal beauty led 
 
 To shame, and houseless misery ; 
 And now, the earth her dying bed, 
 
 She mourned her hapless destiny. 
 
 
 
 And, as far o er the gloom, she sees 
 A twinkling taper s feeble light, 
 
74 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " Alas !" she sighs, " what happy days 
 My folly, in their bloom, could blight ! 
 
 " Where burns that feeble taper s blaze, 
 I, with my aged father, dwelt ; 
 
 And happy was I with his praise, 
 The greatest pleasure that I felt. 
 
 " When with a parent s joy, he d gaze 
 Upon the daughter of his love, 
 
 And then his trembling hands would raise, 
 To call a blessing from above ; 
 
 " And then would press me to his heart, 
 Call me his own, his dearest one, 
 
 And then tears to his eyes would start, 
 As he d pray God for me alone. t 
 
 " But then came one, whose flattering tongue, 
 To win me from my father, strove. 
 
 Alas ! I listened, and e er long, 
 He made me fly a father s love. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 75 
 
 " And when I wept my home to leave, 
 And fear and doubt were on my brow, 
 
 He whispered that I must not grieve, 
 Said I should be his Nannie, now. 
 
 " I trusted. And could I forget 
 
 The love my father bore his child ? 
 I only was his all, and yet 
 
 I fled, by treachery beguiled. 
 
 " I fled, and left him here alone, 
 
 His gray hairs sinking to the grave ; 
 
 I fled, and left him here to mourn 
 
 That daughter, whom his love forgave. 
 
 " Yes ; for they tell me, when he should 
 Have called down curses on my head, 
 Low in the dust, to heaven he bowed, 
 
 And still for his poor Nannie prayed. 
 
 
 
 " And now I hear that he is sick, 
 
 That age and wo his life-blood numb ; 
 
76 MY DREAMS. 
 
 That grief his worn-out heart must break, 
 And sorrow drive him to the tomb. 
 
 " And vainly have I sought the way, 
 To soothe one pang, to dry one tear ; 
 
 That I might kneel to him and say, 
 
 Father, your wandering Nannie s here. 
 
 She hushed, and the loud raging storm 
 Howled louder as it swept along, 
 
 And seemed to mock the fragile form, 
 Whose fate upon its fury hung. 
 
 Far roars the blast, the forests groan ; 
 
 Ruin all nature doth survey, 
 And seems to claim it as its own ; 
 
 All nature bows, and owns its sway. 
 
 * * *. * * 
 
 But hushed at last, the storm is done, 
 
 Calmly the wrecks of nature lie, 
 And brightly now, the rising sun 
 
 Smiles from the clear, unclouded sky. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 77 
 
 But where is she, who late bewailed 
 
 The cruel wind s relentless rage ! 
 Was it her sad complaints prevailed, 
 
 That Ruin ceased his war to wage / 
 
 And did she reach her father s home ? 
 
 And may she close his dying eye? 
 And may she, though with sorrow dumb, 
 
 Show him his Nannie, ere he die ? 
 
 The old man lay upon his bed ; 
 
 Alone he wept his daughter s fate, 
 Near him he hears a stranger s tread ; 
 
 He turns, her corpse is at his feet. 
 
 Calmly he looks, one word, one sigh 
 
 Escape not from his aged lips, 
 He looks on that dull, clouded eye, 
 
 And from its lids the cold frost wipes. 
 
 
 
 He seeks to dry the frozen tears 
 
 Which glisten on those pallid cheeks, 
 
78 MY DREAMS. 
 
 His weak hand drops, and all his cares, 
 Death s touch, at once, now kindly checks. 
 
 And low in one cold grave they lie, 
 
 To dust by stranger hands conveyed ; 
 No stone to draw the pitying eye 
 
 
 
 Is o er their earthy mansion laid. 
 
 And winter s blast, and summer s sun, 
 Have passed upon this silent spot, 
 
 And gloomy autumn hastens on, 
 
 And none have come to mourn their lot. 
 
 Yet there is one who should have wept 
 
 His ruined Nannie s hapless doom, 
 That one who like a serpent crept, 
 
 And stole her from her father s home. 
 ***** 
 And now by the receding light 
 
 Of the bright sun that sinks to rest, 
 Behold a stranger gaily dight, 
 
 To yon lone cottage rides in haste. 
 
POOR NANNIE. 
 
 And when he sees its ruined walls, 
 The still grave, now the only home 
 
 Of those, whose semblance memory calls, 
 The living image, from the tomb ; 
 
 And when he hears the mournful tale, 
 Which those can tell who laid them there, 
 
 Sighs bid at length his bosom swell, 
 And in his eye glistens a tear. 
 
 Dashing his hand across his brow, 
 Plunging his rowels in his steed, 
 
 He hurries on, and seeks to throw 
 Off memory with his courser s speed. 
 
 But still, as hastening on, he d hide 
 
 The woful scene of misery, 
 He fancies Nannie by his side, 
 
 Th upbraider of his treachery. 
 
 
 
 And borne upon the gentle breeze, 
 A murmuring sigh sounds in his ear, 
 
 79 
 
80 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And a low whispering voice, which says, 
 " What, has poor Nannie jaet one tear ?" 
 
 Ah ! few the sighs her misery 
 
 From that light, thoughtless heart can draw, 
 And seldom on her memory 
 
 He deigns a backward glance to throw. 
 
 In the gay world he drowns the wo 
 
 Which for one moment swelled his breast ; 
 
 Grown cold as is the frozen snow, 
 His heart grief seldom can molest. 
 
 And now he haunts its dazzling glare, 
 
 And laughs, and there his smiles are many, 
 
 But few the thoughts he gives that tear, 
 Which once he shed for his poor Nannie. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 A STRUGGLE, pang, a gasp, and tis commenced, 
 
 A bubble which we grasp at, and which bursts ; 
 
 A flower we seize, but to retain a thorn ; 
 
 A star, which brightly glimmering, is too cold 
 
 To warm us with the ray which wakes our hope ; 
 
 A winter s sunbeam glancing o er the ice, 
 
 To mock us with its cheating show of warmth ; 
 
 A tantalizing joy, we only grasp 
 
 To find its falsity ; a hope which fades ; 
 
 A dreary desert waste, of anxious thought, 
 
 Resting itself on its own weariness. 
 
 And gasping for relief, beyond the ken, 
 
 E en of its own ungoverned fancy s flights ; 
 
 And thus our dream progresses. And then comes, 
 
 Amidst the gaping ennui which remains, 
 
82 MY DREAMS. 
 
 To point us back towards its troubled course, 
 
 (As though it were a thing we should regret,) 
 
 One other struggle, pang, one other gasp, 
 
 And thus it ends. And this our world, 
 
 The theatre of all our fleeting fancies, 
 
 What is it now 1 Go ask yon grinning skull, 
 
 And in its silence, find thine answer given. 
 
 Tis nothing, fool ! for now thy dream is done, 
 
 And life has past away between those gasps 
 
 Which marked its entrance and its exit made, 
 
 And thou hast lived, for what 1 vain fool ! canst tell ? 
 
 Was t glory tempted thee ? or love ? or fame ? 
 
 Pleasure or riches ? learning s hidden depths ? 
 
 What Will o Wisp has dragged thee on so far, 
 
 To leave thee here ? Ha ! ha ! turn once again 
 
 To thy mute monitor. Like thee, he laboured. 
 
 Now, within the dust which clings around 
 
 Yon fleshless skull, find all which he may own 
 
 Of this like thine his world. Thy lesson learned, 
 
 To know that life is emptiness, the world, 
 
 A cradle but for nothingness and Death, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 83 
 
 Then go, and like the crowd who ve struggled on, 
 In the same track thou treadest, struggle thou 
 In meteor chase, until thy respite comes, 
 And thou perforce shalt sink to rest, and cease, 
 Like them, to dream, 
 
ZEPHYR AND THE FLOWER. 
 
 LADEN with dew, it bowed its head, 
 
 While on its leaves the moisture thrown 
 
 Like tear-drops o er its face was spread, 
 As tho it wept for pleasures gone. 
 
 It seemed to mourn the sister flowers 
 
 Which withering now, were round it laid, 
 
 And which weighed down by summer showers 
 Waited not winter s frosts, to fade. 
 
 But Zephyr mourns ; his fav rite weeps ; 
 
 And sighing, as he passing flies, 
 He gently to her bosom creeps 
 Awhile, with sympathising sighs. 
 
 And fanning dry each glistening tear, 
 He lifts the mourning blossom s head, 
 
 Who once more smiles, as tho all fear, 
 And trace of sorrow now were fled. 
 
 9 
 
ZEPHYR AND THE FLOWER. 85 
 
 Tis thus that sympathy may soothe 
 
 The many ills she cannot cure. 
 When kindness seeks our path to smooth, 
 
 We learn to smilingly endure. 
 
 The greatest agony of wo 
 
 Is that it is a lonely thing, 
 Whose frighted weakness can but know 
 
 The solitude its sufferings bring. 
 
 &v 
 6t r lis when Grief is borne alone, 
 
 And despot in its misery, 
 Allows no brother near the throne, 
 We feel its deep intensity. 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 
 
 " Qui que tu sois, voici ton maitre, 
 II Test, le fut, ou le doit etre." 
 
 THE fair white rose can beauties boast, 
 
 But when we see the lovely blush 
 Which decks her sister, who can most 
 Admire the pallid blossom s hue ! 
 Or who his heartfelt praise can hush, 
 Nor feel how much that praise is due ? 
 
 And yet they say, this blushing flower 
 
 Pale as her sister is once grew ; 
 And how twas changed, and by what power, 
 
 I soon will make you know full well, 
 If to a tedious tale, though true, 
 You ll deign to listen while I tell. 
 
 In days when fairies danced their round, 
 And divers elfin sports did play ; 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 87 
 
 When every beauteous spot they found, 
 
 By tiny steps was often traced, 
 And made to sound with laughter gay 
 In those blest days my story s placed. 
 
 " Once on a time," there was a group 
 
 Of these light, joyous beings chanced 
 From airy course their flight to stoop, 
 And on a flowery spot descended, 
 Where long with lightsome step they danced 
 Till daylight with night s gloom was blended. 
 
 But fairies dare not to prolong 
 
 Their dance, and games, when daylight s near ; 
 The moon may listen to their song, 
 
 Peep o er the meadows while they play, 
 But the sun s dazzling light they fear, 
 And vanish with his dawning ray. 
 
 Thus the gay group of whom I sing, 
 
 Scarce saw the first faint light of day, 
 Ere breaking up their joyous ring, 
 
88 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Each whispered that the dance was done, 
 " And now," they cried, " away, away, 
 We vanish with the rising sun." 
 
 But one, who feared that change of place, 
 
 Might never find a spot so fair, 
 Proposed that from the sun s bright face, 
 
 They each should hide till evening came, 
 And, with the fading daylight s glare, 
 Renew their sports, the spot the same. 
 
 Each pleased with the proposal seemed, 
 
 And all they asked was, where to hide ? 
 For e en the bravest of them deemed, 
 
 Twould be unsafe to face Sol s ray. 
 But soon this difficulty died, 
 
 They sought not long where they should stay ; 
 
 For soon a refuge near they found, 
 
 And each, into some opening blossom 
 Crept, for the flowers grew thick around, 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 89 
 
 There safe from danger hid they lay, 
 And, quiet in some flowret s bosom, 
 They slept away the garish day. 
 
 The fairies knew that thorns oft grew, 
 
 And guarded round the sweetest flower, 
 But ah ! another danger too, 
 
 Of which they never thought, was there, 
 A danger, which, until that hour, 
 
 They ne er before had learned to fear. 
 
 And while they guarded gainst each thorn, 
 
 Blunted each point which could distress them, 
 They dreamed not that their bosoms torn, 
 
 Might soon be, by another power, 
 Who lay in ambush to oppress them, 
 And only waited for his hour. 
 
 That hour soon came; for as the sun 
 
 Was sinking in his ocean bftd, 
 Thinking the day was almost done, 
 
 8* 
 
90 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And almost past was danger s hour, 
 Each fairy raised his little head, 
 And gan to peep above his flower. 
 
 Then was it that the tyrant Love, 
 
 Who, patient, long his chance had watched , 
 And on a bending bough above 
 
 Their heads had kept his guard all day, 
 And all his plans for victory hatched, 
 While hidden close his victims lay 
 
 , when they dared to peep above 
 Their flowery walls, and look around, 
 Ah ! then it was, the tyrant Love 
 
 Aimed his sharp arrows at each heart, 
 And ere they knew from whence the wound, 
 
 They felt the piercing weapon s smart. 
 
 Each writhed with suffering, as he felt 
 The point pierce deep into his heart, 
 And when Love lit amongst them, knelt 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 
 
 To crave compassion from the God. 
 Love smiled, and as they feared his dart, 
 Threw it far off from where he stood. 
 
 " Fear not," he said, " you ve felt my might, 
 
 Tis all I aimed at ; fear no more, 
 To who submits, my wound is light, 
 
 But hard to him who would resist ; 
 Bend therefore low, and own my power, 
 And to oppose it now desist." 
 
 X. 
 
 Love smiled so sweet, and talked so fair, 
 
 And had so late his strength, too, shown, 
 The fairy-group, well pleased to hear 
 
 That he no farther harm would do, 
 Scarce heard him finish, ere they d flown 
 To bow and pay all homage due. 
 
 One only stood, silent, apart, 
 
 Swelling with anger and disdain, 
 A lady fair, whose flinty heart, 
 
92 MY DREAMS. 
 
 By many a fairy suitor sought, 
 Had still made all their suings vain ; 
 
 For sweet words ne er that heart had caught. 
 
 " Shall I too, bow," she said, " to Love ? 
 
 Shall I too own the tyrant s might, 
 Forbid it, all ye powers above ! 
 
 The fairy race their birth may shame 
 Submitting ; but the wound s not light 
 Which shall force me to blot my fame. 
 
 " No power shall see me bow my head, 
 
 Or crouch beneath a tyrant s rod, 
 With servile voice I ne er have prayed, 
 
 And bow not with yon coward troup ; 
 I dare thy power, audacious God, 
 Tis not to-day I ll learn to stoop." 
 
 Twas thus the beauteous fairy spoke, 
 
 While on the pale white rose she stood ; 
 That rose from which she shelter took 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 93 
 
 To shun the sultry heat of day ; 
 From that she looked down on the crowd, 
 Scornful to see them homage pay. 
 
 Love saw her, heard her scornful speech, 
 
 And smiling said, " Ah ! lady fair, 
 You think my arrows cannot reach, 
 
 While on yon rose you re perched aloft ; 
 But, beauty, of my power beware, 
 
 My pride is to make hard hearts soft." 
 
 He then the sharpest arrow chose, 
 
 That e er was in Love s quiver found, 
 Nor, on the fairy of the rose, 
 
 His threatened vengeance long delayed ; 
 The arrow flew, a bleeding wound 
 Deep in her inmost heart was made. 
 
 Paler than e en the rose s hue 
 
 Became that beauteous fairy s face. 
 The arrow to its aim so true, 
 
94 MY DREAMS. 
 
 The deeper for resistance found, 
 E en to the heart s core forced a place, 
 Rankling, with barbed point, the wound. 
 
 Unlike those slighter ones, which did 
 
 But skin-deep pierce the easier hearts, 
 This, deep within the bosom hid, 
 
 Must vainly seek a speedy cure, 
 For common means, and common arts, 
 But aid the sufferer to endure. 
 
 Love saw that he his point had gained, 
 
 As the rebellious fairy sank, 
 And through her wound, the heart s blood drained 
 
 O er the white rose, was scattered round, 
 While the pale leaves its colour drank, 
 
 Till stained, they were more beauteous found. 
 
 Twas all he asked, his only end 
 
 Was that his strength should be allowed ; 
 And now that he his point had gained, 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED ROSE. 95 
 
 He left as symbol of his power, 
 To make his might by all avowed, 
 
 The once white rose, the blood-stained flower. 
 
 Then, maidens, when the red rose blooms, 
 
 Remember what may be your fate, 
 And bow to Love, before he dooms 
 
 You, like the fairy of the flower. 
 Learn here, ere yet it be too late 
 
 That none on earth can dare his power. 
 
THE POET S DREAM. 
 
 Tis a beam, which through morning clouds still glanceth 
 
 bright, 
 
 Driving night from her throne, waking nature to light, 
 Tis yon meteor which flasheth athwart the broad sky, 
 Which born midst the darkness, mid st darkness must die. 
 
 Tis the moonbeam which glanceth so bright o er the wave 
 To seek in the bosom which bore it, its grave, 
 Tis the roar of the sea, with its agry waves dashing ; 
 Tis the voice of the storm ; tis the lightning s flashing. 
 
 Tis the whisper of Zephyr ; the stars brightest beaming ; 
 Tis the murmur of leaves ; tis the form of our dreaming, 
 Tis the wordless idea ; tis the soul of a passion ; 
 An embryo thought, which must die in creation. 
 
 It struggles, but vainly it struggles for birth, 
 For it was not, it is not, ne er can be of earth ; 
 
THE POET S DREAM. 97 
 
 Tis the vision, the loveliest, the frailest, the fairest ; 
 The thought which is brightest, and freest, and dearest. 
 
 Invisible wing, through the universe sweeping, 
 
 In joy and in sorrow, its light pinions steeping ; 
 
 Tis nothing , tis all things ; tis thought s wildest swarm ; 
 
 Tis the Dream of the Poet, the form without form. 
 
THE POET S HOME. 
 
 OH ! where is the land where his spirit would dwell, 
 
 And his shackled thought be free ? 
 Where his pent-up sighs may freely swell 
 The bosom, which dares not now to tell 
 
 How it longs in that land to be ! 
 
 Is it East ? Is it West ? that poet home, 
 
 In air ? or earth ? or sea / 
 Or must his wearied spirit roam 
 To some far-distant world, to come 
 
 Where it feels that it dares be free ? 
 
 Wake ! wake ye ! ye visions wild ; and say, 
 
 Ye rulers of his will, 
 
 Where is that world from whence ye stray, 
 Which beckoning on with meteor-ray 
 
 Half showing, ye conceal ? 
 
99 
 
 Oh ! where is that home ? ye point it afar, 
 
 And I gaze, but a gilded cloud, 
 As it floats on the gently wafting air, 
 Is all that my eye can fix on there ; 
 
 A shadow of light and good. 
 
 Alas ! for his hope and the home which he sought ! 
 
 A cloud, glanced on by a beam ! 
 And that world of the poet s wandering thought ; 
 And the fair, and the bright with which tis fraught, 
 
 Are the visions of a dream ! 
 
 His brain, with the teemings of Fancy is rife, 
 
 And lit by her flickering gleam, 
 His tears and his smiles, and his inward strife, 
 His sorrows, his joys, his hope, and his life 
 
 Pass like yon cloud with its beam. 
 
 But though fickle and light, as a gossamer wing, 
 
 By the breeze wafted idly along, 
 Oh ! still to the joys of that dream will he cling, 
 Still grasp at the shadows which fancy can bring, 
 
 Still live in the breath of his song. 
 
100 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And, blest in his dream, which can drive off life s scenes, 
 
 With which he oft wearied has striven, 
 For though but supported on Fancy, he leans, 
 By a meteor propped scattered sunbeams he gleans, 
 And on gilded clouds soars towards heaven. 
 
THE FIRST BEAM OF LIGHT. 
 
 WHENCE came it ? that beam which first over our earth 
 Burst so startlingly forth, calling beauty to birth 1 
 Whence came it I the bright and all-hallowing ray, 
 O er a world sunk in darkness, to wake it to day ? 
 Whence came it? that glance o er the universe sending 
 A new birth, whence light and love, joy and hope blending, 
 May live in to-day, and hope on for to-morrow, 
 Till earth almost forgets, that in darkness and sorrow, 
 From the womb of Old Chaos she struggled in night, 
 Knowing nought of the unheard-of vision of light? 
 Whence came it ? the ray which, a new life bestowing, 
 Showed a universe, young in its loveliness, glowing ? 
 
 The earth was cold and hard, and beauty slept ; 
 
 And th o erhanging clouds, e en when they wept, 
 Wept only tears of ice. 
 
 The ocean heaved in darkness ; and its wave 
 
 Murmured in sorrow, and its low voice gave 
 But moans and whispered sighs : 
 
102 MY DREAMS. 
 
 U 
 
 And twas not night, for night has stars and beams 
 Of broken brightness ; and its darkness seems 
 The remnant of a lingering light, which sinks, 
 But will not die ; and struggling still, which links 
 E en night, with hope. But it was darkness, still, 
 Cold, leaden darkness, not of earth, but hell. 
 A thing all horror, and a sealed-up tomb, 
 Where unborn life, wrapped in a changeless gloom, 
 But waked to agony, then sank away, 
 Cheered by no hope, or baptized by no ray 
 Of heavenly light. Oh ! was not this the hell, 
 
 Which priests, to fright us, tell, 
 
 A holy God has made ? 
 
 Where, o er the sinner s head, 
 
 Eternal vengeance breaking, 
 
 His heart. with anguish racking, 
 
 The frighted thing may learn, 
 When too late to repent, 
 
 A God with hate can burn, 
 
 And goodness not relent ? 
 If this were hell, bigot, its terrors faded 
 When Love looked down. A world with horrors shaded, 
 
THE FIRST BEAM OF LIGHT. 103 
 
 But caught his glance, and struggled to be bright ; 
 He smiled, and lo ! creation basked in light. 
 
 The voice Omnipotent was heard ; 
 
 The powerful and all-conquering word ; 
 
 "Let there be light," it said, and forth there sprung 
 
 A beam celestial ; which, o er nature flung 
 The light of heaven, 
 The ray, which given 
 
 To suffering man, he looked above 
 
 And knew his God, the God of love. 
 
 His smile, o er prostrate nature gleaming, 
 
 She basked within its cheerful beaming, 
 
 Nor, satisfied but to receive, 
 
 Cast back as much as she could give. 
 
 And every smile from heaven that fell, 
 
 Reflected back to heaven would tell, 
 
 How love may pay a love bestowed, 
 
 And man can emulate his God. 
 
 He from that smile of Heaven then caught 
 The ray which lights the bh nd, 
 
 And thence his darkened mind was taught 
 To love, and to be kind. 
 
104 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Twas thence he learned, that this was day, 
 
 And this the light of Peace ; 
 That this could chase e en hell away, 
 
 And turn e en pain to bliss. 
 
 To love, and be beloved again, 
 The lesson learned from heaven, 
 
 To him who hears it not, in vain 
 That beam of light was given. 
 
 Though brightness shines around, he turns, 
 
 His heart in darkness lives; 
 Heaven stoops to bless him, and he spurns 
 
 The dearest boon it gives. 
 
MY DEAD. 
 
 Tis still ; no footfall s sound I hear, 
 But yet, there s something lingering near ; 
 Tis dark : no object meets the eye, 
 But still, a shadow passes by : 
 
 Ye re here, my dead ! 
 
 In the midnight gloom, I see ye near, 
 In the hush of night your voices hear, 
 And I weep not then, but I gaze, and deem 
 These airy forms are the things they seem. 
 My dead ! my dead ! 
 
 And hands are cold which are locked in mine, 
 And stiff those arms which embraced I twine ; 
 And dim the eyes which for me are bright, 
 As ye move around me, with footsteps light, 
 My dead ! my dead ! 
 
106 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And no mortal breath nor voice is heard, 
 Yet my heart beats high, and my thoughts are stirred. 
 And ye commune of things which I may not know, 
 And mysteries dark yourselves are now, 
 My dead ! my dead ! 
 
 But it softens my heart to know you near, 
 And I love to think that my words you hear ; 
 And I turn to you when with sorrow worn, 
 And remember that you have lived, and borne 
 Like me, my dead ! 
 
 When mortal suffering meets my eye, 
 If I d coldly pass my brother by, 
 I remember that you have suffered and wept, 
 And kindness into my heart has crept, 
 For ye, my dead ! 
 
 When angry passions rise and swell, 
 And demon powers my bosom fill, 
 I remember that you from passion are free, 
 And drive them off, as I think on ye, 
 My dead ! my dead ! 
 
MY BEAD. 
 
 107 
 
 Then watch with me still, in the midnight gloom ; 
 Oh ! wake ye, my dead, from your silent tomb, 
 In the hush of night, still let me hear 
 Your voices, strange to mortal ear, 
 
 Watch with me, my dead! 
 
 And be with me still as I pass thro life, 
 And counsel me still, in sorrow, or strife; 
 And if grief or joy should beat too high, 
 Then whisper, that soon like you I die, 
 Live with me, my dead ! 
 
 And if heavily weighs of anguish the load, 
 Still teach me to bow to the mandates of God ; 
 To humbly pray a balm for the wo, 
 Submit to a will that I may not know, 
 Pray with me, my dead ! 
 
 And when life must pass, and the hand of Death 
 Grasps the spasm d throat while it gasps for breath, 
 Then whisper that soon the end must be, 
 And tell me, that ye have died like me ; 
 Be with me, my dead ! 
 
YE RE BORN TO DIE. 
 
 ON summer s eve, an opening bud 
 
 Cast its fragrance through the wood, 
 
 Sweetly blooming seemed the flower, 
 
 Born to ope in beauty s bower. 
 
 But tho in forest wild it sprung, 
 
 Where wide the oaks their branches flung, 
 
 Where the forest giants stood, 
 
 Where man s step a stranger trod, 
 
 Where all was rough, and wild, and drear, 
 
 The timid thing (like Beauty s tear, 
 
 Which will not, may not be refused, 
 
 But brighter glistens, harshlier used, 
 
 Until the rudest hearts will cower, 
 
 They scarce know why, to Beauty s power) 
 
 Seemed to deem that roughest thing 
 
 Its tribute at her feet must fling ; 
 
 To feel, that e en where mightiest spring 
 
 The branches of the forest-king, 
 
YE RE BORN TO DIE. 
 
 Twas not for her to stoop, e en there 
 She still might reign, for she was fair. 
 But through the forest, hark ! a sigh ; 
 Tis mourning Zephyr passing by. 
 " Sprung from earth, in dust to lie, 
 Why so fair? Thou rt born to die." 
 
 A butterfly, which on the breeze, 
 Borne in random course along, 
 Had stooped, the budding thing to kiss, 
 
 And o er its nascent beauties hung, 
 Droops its wing, its life is o er ; 
 Perishing with yon fair flower, 
 Together sinking on Earth s breast, 
 One note may hush them to their rest, 
 Hist! tis in the passing sigh, 
 " Fragile things, ye re born to die." 
 
 Proudly, see (its massy form 
 Rearing o er their humble tomb, 
 
 As tho unheeding of the storm 
 
 Which, roaring, threats a sudden doom) 
 10 
 
 109 
 
110 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 The Oak its unscathed branches spread ; 
 And tho some splintered wrecks be strown, 
 With withering leaves commingled thrown, 
 
 They seem but tokens o er the dead, 
 
 Which Memory casts to mark the place, 
 And show us what tis dear to trace 
 Where those we love have sunk away, 
 And dust to dust, and clay to clay, 
 To us are but as things unborn, 
 Save that they ve taught us how to mourn, 
 And rise as spectres from their sleep, 
 Midst fairest scenes to bid us weep. 
 
 Proudly o er their relics bending, 
 While the storm is vainly spending 
 All its rage, he seems to dare, 
 Scarce heed the war, that s waging there. 
 
 See the lightning s flash ! 
 Hark ! the o erwhelming crash ! 
 The roar of thunder, through the forest sounding, 
 Loudly it calls, (earth s trembling caves resounding,) 
 " Die ! die ! thou thing of earth, 
 Whate er thy strength, thy birth 
 
Ill 
 
 Has marked thy doom. 
 Die. Thou wert born, thou liv st but for the tomb." 
 
 Tis ruin all. Tree, flower, and insect lie, 
 One formless wreck ; for all were born to die. 
 
 Heed it. not, 
 
 The wooing tone 
 Of the Siren Pleasure singing, 
 Know thy lot 
 
 Man has but one, 
 Life to Death is ever bringing 
 Victims for the tomb ; 
 Fairest things that bloom, 
 Only to fade away, 
 Only to smile to-day, 
 That to-morrow, Death may be 
 Glutted, but as yesterday. 
 
 See, the eyeless spectre ! What doth he glare withal ? 
 Hark ! a tongueless voice ! whence comes the fearful 
 call? 
 
112 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " Ye re mine ! Strength, beauty, youth, shrink not. 
 
 Ye re mine ! 
 
 Truer than love s, these fleshless arms entwine 
 In close embrace. And vainly would ye shun, 
 Poor fools ! your lot. Tis here. Earth has but one. 
 That moment ye woke to life s struggling sigh, 
 That moment declared, ye were born but to die ; 
 And the pang which first called you from torpor to 
 
 breath, 
 Was the stamp and the seal of your mortgage to Death." 
 
THE FIRE-FLY. 
 
 STARLIGHT gilds the gloomy hour, 
 Startled darkness shrinks away ; 
 
 Heavenly beams, with radiant power, 
 Imitate the light of day. 
 
 Whence the fluttering, weakly gleam 
 Glancing through the placid night ? 
 
 The fire-fly apes the sky s bright beam ! 
 Soars heavenward with its tiny light. 
 
 As though it hoped to yonder star, 
 Its dwarfish brightness it might rear, 
 
 And glimmering feebly from afar, 
 
 Would seem the heavenly light to dare. 
 
 Fool, thing ! as spurning thus the earth, 
 To which, alone, its ray is bright, 
 10* 
 
114 MY DREAMS. 
 
 It seemed to scorn its humble birth, 
 Speaking thus, I checked its flight. 
 
 " Flitting in thy transient light, 
 From thy grassy bed arising, 
 
 Thinkest thou, because thou rt bright, 
 The world is only worth despising ? 
 
 " With yon studded sky, dost deem 
 Thy broken light can bear comparing ? 
 
 Alas ! how weak thine efforts seem 
 The fire-fly, heaven s effulgence daring ! 
 
 " Thou, but for a summer s eve, 
 
 With inconstant light art gleaming ; 
 
 Dares thy littleness to grieve, 
 
 That yon stars more bright are beaming ? 
 
 " Sink, then, to thy native earth, 
 Nor with rival splendour vying, 
 
 But expose thy lowly birth, 
 As each effort fades in dying." 
 
THE FIRE-FLY. 
 
 Lo ! the fluttering insect pausing, 
 Turns to earth its humble course, 
 
 And its glittering pinions closing, 
 Thus began to hold discourse : 
 
 " Mortal, who so wisely teachest 
 How to check Ambition s flight, 
 
 Aim st thou but at what thou readiest? 
 Seek st thou no forbidden height? 
 
 " Hast thou never, boldly soaring, 
 Dared to track some higher sphere ? 
 
 Brighter realms than Earth s exploring, 
 Sighed to fall and find thee here ? 
 
 " What though thou, like me, must find- 
 Born to Earth, doomed to regretting 
 
 Vainly that the restless mind 
 
 Seeks to soar, its birth forgetting. 
 
 " Visions bright to Earth exiled, 
 Of fantastic hopes repented, 
 
 115 
 
116 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Let us to home be reconciled, 
 Learn at least to be contented." 
 
 Shrinking, then, the humbled thing 
 All its higher visions fled, 
 
 Folding its ambitious wing, 
 Hid it in its earthy bed. 
 
 Poor insect, who so boldly chidest 
 At my hopes, which soar too high 
 
 As thy starlit wing thou hidest, 
 Must they veil their light and die ( 
 
 No ! Thus far thy lesson learning, 
 
 Of fantastic hopes repented, 
 To my earthy home returning, 
 
 I will seek to be contented ; 
 
 I will learn like thee to lay me 
 
 Where Heaven points my resting-place, 
 But one hope will that betray me 1 
 
 Lingers still, bright thoughts to trace. 
 
THE FIRE-FLY. 117 
 
 Higher views than earth s inspiring, 
 
 Tremblingly its pencil gilds ; 
 Crouched to earth, it learns aspiring, 
 
 Humbly daring, now it builds. 
 
 Fancy, now, no more is proud ; 
 
 Trembling Reason scarce dares sway me : 
 Doubts o er every path are strewed, 
 
 Still I trust twill not betray ma 
 
 Bent to earth, bowed down by fear, 
 Our highest hopes are only given, 
 
 When humbled, shrinking, still we dare, 
 Crouched in dust, to dream of heaven. 
 
THE SUNBEAM SPRITE. 
 
 IT wandered through air, and it wandered o er earth, 
 Till wearied, the tired thing sighed for its home, 
 
 And longed for the sunbeam, the place of its birth, 
 That found, oh ! never again would it roam. 
 
 But the longer it sought, still the less was its hope, 
 And bewildered and sad was that Sunbeamy Sprite, 
 
 For midst earth s brightest things, there was nothing to 
 
 cope 
 With its own loved home, with its sunbeam bright. 
 
 And he gazed at the glorious orb of day, 
 And he fluttered his wearied wings in vain ; 
 
 For alas ! it was shining so far away ! 
 Oh ! where could he hope e er to rest again ? 
 
 As his saddened eye he cast weariedly round, 
 It lit on a snow-capped mountain top ; 
 
THE SUNBEAM SPRITE. 119 
 
 So dazzlingly it glistened, he thought he had found 
 A warm, bright, resting-place, where he might stop. 
 
 But alas ! when his tired wings had reached 
 The far-off place, which so brightly shone, 
 
 There was ice and snow all around him stretched, 
 And cold, freezing cold, reigned there alone. 
 
 And the ice, with its rainbow hues, here, there 
 He touched, as he saw it round him lie. 
 
 Twas so cold, that he shrank away with a tear, 
 And wished that a Sunbeam Sprite could die. 
 
 Then he laid him down, as it were his home, 
 
 For despair had seized him ; his hope was now, 
 
 That some strange numbness like death might come, 
 And wrap him, in torpor, from pain and wo. 
 
 But lo ! afar off shining, 
 
 Beams the still river s breast. 
 Upon it, lies reclining, 
 
 As twere a bed of rest, 
 
120 MY DREAMS. 
 
 As bright a beam, as heaven could send, 
 With things of earth to live and blend. 
 
 My home ! my home ! cried the joyous sprite, 
 As the glistening stream caught his dazzled eye, 
 
 Oh ! yonder s my home, so loved and so bright, 
 And he clapped his tiny hands for joy. 
 
 And away he flew, for fresh strength was given, 
 By the new hope, sprung in his wearied breast, 
 
 And his eye was still fixed on the beam, which heaven, 
 He fancied, had sent to give him rest. 
 
 And he playfully fluttered his wings, and stopped, 
 One instant, balanced above the waves, 
 
 Then closing them quickly, down he dropped 
 Poor sprite ! tis not there, the rest he craves. 
 
 For if it might be that a sprite could die, 
 
 This hour were the last to that wretched thing, 
 
 As useless and wet his pinions lie, 
 
 The wave whirls him round he has nowhere to cling. 
 
THE SUNBEAM SPRITE. 121 
 
 Plaything of the flood, and resistless he lay, 
 
 For, to struggle he had nor the heart, nor the strength, 
 
 Till, at last, he was thrown by the rough dashing spray, 
 On the river s bank, extended at length. 
 
 And he raised him there, in doleful plight, 
 As down his cheek streamed many a tear, 
 
 And a sorry sight was that sunbeam sprite, 
 As, dripping and wet, he stood shivering there. 
 
 A beauteous blossom, near him blowing, 
 Seemed, in its opening bosom, glowing 
 With heat from heaven, so kindly sent. 
 Thought the sprite, as thither his steps he bent, 
 I ll bask me there, in the sunny ray, 
 And drive this shivering fit away. 
 
 And slowly and toilsomely, he dragged him along, 
 
 And his draggled wings swept in the dust, as he past ; 
 And twas but with much toilsome effort amono- 
 
 o 
 
 Its fragrant leaves that he rested, at last. 
 11 
 
122 MY DREAMS. 
 
 But there he was, and there for awhile 
 
 He fancied his present toil was done, 
 And basking beneath the sun s warm smile 
 
 Deemed, at last, that his resting-place was won. 
 
 But the God of his worship is passing away, 
 Sol sinks neath the ocean, and fast fades the day, 
 And the flowret s bosom grows chill as the tomb, 
 And the night-dews weep over its withering bloom. 
 
 And the tired wanderer shuddering sees 
 
 The curtain of night fast descending around, 
 
 While mournfully past him is sighing the breeze, 
 As tho sorrowing over the woes he has found. 
 
 Dark, sombre night ! Twas strange to him, 
 
 
 Who ever had lived in the sun s bright ray, 
 
 And who never of darkness in fancy could dream, 
 For a sunbeam sprite knows nought but of day. 
 
 And he gazed around at the darkening view, 
 
 And deemed that some horrible wonder was near ; 
 
THE SUNBEAM SPRITE. 123 
 
 And shuddered, as darker and darker it grew ! 
 
 Who can guess, how the poor thing was trembling 
 with fear ? 
 
 A ray of hope is round him gleaming, 
 See how brightly near him beaming, 
 Cynthia s eye attracts his gaze ! 
 Could he not warm him in its rays ? 
 
 Doubtful, and trembling, the heart-sickened thing 
 
 Crept from the flower ; its bruised wing 
 
 It dragged along, for it could not fly, 
 
 Till it basked in the light of that beaming eye. 
 
 Did he find what he sought? 
 
 Was there warmth 1 was there rest ? 
 Twas colder than ever, the poor thing thought, 
 
 As he wrung his hands, and sore distrest, 
 He flung him down on the chilly earth, 
 Cursing the hour which gave him birth. 
 
 And he cursed the earth, and he cursed the sky, 
 E en his own loved beam, where he was nursed ; 
 
124 MY DREAMS. 
 
 It was shining so far away on high, 
 
 Twas nought to him ; and its light he cursed, 
 Which could shine for others, and leave him here, 
 The victim of suffering, cold, and fear. 
 
 And, as he looked round on the thickening night, 
 How he shook with horror, that anguished sprite, 
 As he wondered if he were a devil now, 
 To dwell with darkness, despair, and wo ; 
 And thought it was hell, which he had found, 
 And trembled at his own curses sound. 
 Oh ! despair seized the heart of that wo- worn sprite, 
 As he gazed at the ever-darkening night. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Gently as the moon s first beaming, 
 
 Casts its softly trembling ray, 
 Is there light ? or is he dreaming? 
 
 Is t but his crazed fancy s day ? 
 There s surely something lingering near, 
 To talk of hope, and dry his tear. 
 Unlike the light on the mountain height, 
 
 Unlike the cheating river s shining, 
 
THE SUNBEAM SPRITE. 125 
 
 Unlike the eye, which could bid him die, 
 Without e en a look which spoke repining ; 
 
 There was a light so gently beaming, 
 So softly bright, yet so enduring, 
 
 That once again the poor Sprite, dreaming, 
 Could fancy of his pain the curing. 
 
 Mary, twas from thine eye the light, 
 
 Which spoke of that, his wished-for cure : 
 
 His heart, it dared not throb with delight, 
 But oh ! it dared to hope once more. 
 
 And he drew him nearer, nearer, nearer, 
 As it shone on still with no fitful gleam, 
 
 And now, that glance seemed even dearer, 
 
 Than the light which fell from his own sunbeam. 
 
 For the joys which come, e er sorrows are known, 
 Smile, but to be quickly forgotten again ; 
 
 But the hope which brings comfort, such joys being flown, 
 Is dearer and dearer, the greater our pain. 
 
 And he basked him well in the sunny ray 
 
 Of that eye, which beamed so kindly o er him, 
 11* 
 
126 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And you could not have tempted him now away, 
 Tho twere to his sunbeam to restore him. 
 
 For as he nearer crept, and nearer, 
 
 He paused, where her heart so kindly beating, 
 Told him, that twas a home far dearer, 
 
 Than the beam he had been so long regretting. 
 
 For that, while good around it throwing, 
 
 Is all unconscious of the blessing, 
 While the tender heart, with kindness glowing, 
 
 Beats for each pang it is redressing. 
 
 And when it melts to others sorrows, 
 Or soothes the mourning sufferer s pain, 
 
 We love it, that our griefs it borrows, 
 And for our tears, gives tears again. 
 
 And the tired wanderer, nestled near 
 
 To that kindly heart, and was happy and calm ; 
 For he felt, that e en in this world so drear, 
 
 There s a comfort for sorrow, for misery a balm. 
 
FALLEN ANGELS. 
 
 THEY wander through our world, 
 From higher regions hurled, 
 Angel forms, from Heaven thrust, 
 Grovelling in our earthly dust, 
 
 Weep, weep their fallen might. 
 
 Seraphic host 
 Their glory lost, 
 Tinged with earth, 
 Forgot their birth, 
 
 Weep, weep their fallen might. 
 
 But they bear in their looks still a beam from on high, 
 Tho exiled, the exiles they are of the sky ; 
 And their smile is the smile of the home of their birth, 
 Tho fallen and sullied they re angels on earth. 
 
 Fond Hope who so smilingly points us the way 
 To that sky, whence herself has been driven, 
 
128 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And Mercy, who whispers that man has a stay, 
 And tells him her birthplace was Heaven. 
 
 While Charity lingers to ask for a brother, 
 What ourselves are still seeking, relief; 
 
 And Love whispers softly, the joy of another 
 Is a sunbeam to light our own grief. 
 
 And Affection, the gentlest, the kindest of all, 
 Lingers still, though her sisters be gone ; 
 
 Oh ! scarce, if she might, would she rise from her fall, 
 And leave man to weep here, alone. 
 
 She clings to the outcast, when bent to the dust, 
 
 If her tearful eye rises to Heaven, 
 
 She prays not for that refuge from whence she was 
 thrust, 
 
 But, that comfort to him may be given. 
 
 She hopes not to rise, for she doth not repent, 
 
 But clings to the sufferer here ; 
 O er his care-furrowed brow is she watchfully bent, 
 
 As she answers each pang with a tear. 
 
THE FIRST STAR OF EVENING. 129 
 
 While others are pointing a happier land, 
 Nor can learn to content them with this, 
 
 She kisses his pale brow, she presses his hand, 
 He forgets he s an outcast from bliss. 
 
 THE "FIRST STAR OF EVENING. 
 
 THE first star of evening, how it tremblingly shines, 
 
 As its faint ray is cast o er the sky, 
 While the bright sun to gloom and to darkness declines, 
 
 As his fading light sinks but to die. 
 
 And why do we turn to yon star s trembling ray, 
 
 Which fears even day s dying glare ? 
 And why does the eye to yon sinking sun stray, 
 
 And why is his fading light dear ? 
 
 It is, that man s sad heart is tutor d to wo, 
 Tho oft dazzled by joy s brilliant ray ; 
 
130 MY DREAMS. 
 
 To the sun in his glory we worshipping bow, 
 But love him when sinking away. 
 
 The star, while its lustre shines brightest, may please, 
 Like the rapture which joy can impart ; 
 
 But the weeping eye turns to its trembling rays 
 And they vibrate a chord in the heart. 
 
 J- 
 Oh ! I love that pale star, thaUremblingly shines, 
 
 Xd Aad its faint ray is cast o er the sky, 
 Oh ! I love that bright sun who to darkness declines, 
 As his fading light sinks but to die. 
 
COMBAT OF THE POWERS OF GOOD 
 AND EVI.L. 
 
 FIEECE ! terrible ! a combat wild and fearful ! 
 A mystery of power ; dark in its might ; 
 And indistinct, and vast, and horrible. 
 
 Twas in the howling blast ; 
 Twas in the thunder s roar ; twas in the deep, 
 Which echoed back Heaven s rage, in sullen voice. 
 The cataract s bounding torrent spoke of it ; 
 The whirlwind * crushing might spoke of it ; 
 The crashing forest s ruin spoke of it ;- 
 The earthquake s trembling horrors spoke of it ; 
 It hissed within the fierce volcano s flames, 
 And angered Nature s voice echoed it. 
 Arid in the silent gloom of horrid night 
 Fiends spoke of it, and demons howled it forth. 
 A combat fierce, and horrible, and strange ; 
 The Evil Spirit with the power of Good. 
 
 Sad triumph ! for behold the demon s might 
 Victorious raging. Hark ! his voice alone, 
 
132 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Laughs o er the waste of prostrate Nature s wreck, 
 And darkness, not of night, thick, viewless darkness, 
 Full of horrible imaginings, and things 
 Which only sport them in that fearful gloom, 
 When frighted Reason shrinks, and coward Fear 
 Wakes demon forms, and calls its devils round us, 
 To crush and stun our trembling, dizzied minds ; 
 Methought twas done, and Evil reigned supreme. 
 
 A ray of light ! 
 
 It struggled forth ; a faintly beaming star 
 Shone through the gloom. A voice was there ; it said, 
 " Hope ! mortal, hope." 
 Twas gone. The demon raged again supreme. 
 No more in darkness, but a scorching light ; 
 A sun which warmed no more, but seared and blighted 
 The withering earth, which shrivelled neath his rays, 
 Until itself, was as a globe of fire, 
 To parch the every living thing it bore ; 
 While panting nature gasped as twere for life. 
 The rivers too, were by the thirsty earth 
 Drunk up ; and streams and fountains were not. 
 The heavens refused their aid ; the brazen sky 
 
COMBAT OF THE POWERS OF GOOD AND EVIL. 133 
 
 Seemed one vast mirror of reflected heat. 
 Evil had conquered, and the universe 
 Was blighted at his tread. 
 
 One dew-drop fell : 
 
 From heaven it came ; so cool, so fresh, so pure, 
 Methought it seemed a tear, sent by that power, 
 Which could not conquer, but which watched us still. 
 Again, that voice I heard, which whispering said, 
 " Hope, mortal, hope." 
 
 Twas cold and chill. The sun had lost his heat, 
 His pallid ray but faintly waked the thought 
 Of genial warmth, and only shone to light 
 With sickly beam, the fearful desolation, 
 Which o er earth now held its dismal reign. 
 Twas ice, and howling winds, and endless snows ; 
 And shivering misery, and frozen tears ; 
 And life, which was not life, but turned to stone, 
 With agony of suffering ; and thought was still ; 
 And mind itself lay stunned ; chilled by the view 
 Of statued agony, of " Life in Death." 
 Twas Evil now uncombated. Methought 
 The power of Good no longer struggled. 
 12 
 
134 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Hark ! 
 
 The voice again. And from the frozen earth 
 There budded gently forth, one timid blossom, 
 Drooping it rose, and half- retiring stood, 
 But it was there, the shrinking flower which comes 
 To whisper of the wished-for bloom of spring. 
 The snow-drop reared its head ; and softly then 
 Murmured that voice ; and its soft murmuring, was, 
 " Hope, mortal, hope." 
 
 What fearful tumult comes to drown its tones ? 
 Sprung from the womb of earth, in direst earthquake, 
 Rose the fiend of War, while nature trembled ; 
 Shrieking terrors, pallid fears wait on him; 
 Strange horrors dog his steps ; and thirsty Death 
 Laps thickened gore from out his bloody tracks ; 
 While Famine stalks, with loathly Pestilence, 
 Triumphant in his rear. 
 
 It was a field 
 
 Of carnage. Far and wide, twas death and slaughter; 
 Man with man, passion with passion warred ; 
 It seemed a hell, where devils were let loose ; 
 No world of human charity and love. 
 
COMBAT OF THE POWERS OF GOOD AND EVIL. 135 
 
 And mingling with the clashing arms were cries 
 
 And groans of misery ; and no one heeded them. 
 
 The cannon s roar was answered by the shriek 
 
 Which mangled corpses breathed in agony, 
 
 And no one heard it. Or perchance, twas heard, 
 
 And scoffed at. Were these men, or fiends ? I gazed 
 
 In horrid wonderment. Then, midst the din, 
 
 A fiendish howl of fearful laughter rose. 
 
 Hell s demons triumphal that all good was crushed. 
 
 One scene of sin on sin, and wo on wo. 
 
 I wept and hoped no more. 
 
 " Hope, mortal, hope !" 
 
 The voice was in my ear, distinct in words. 
 No longer only murmured on the breeze ; 
 Its plaintive tones were spoke by mortal lips. 
 I turned, and kneeling near me bent a form, 
 It seemed of heaven, but yet it was of earth. 
 Twas gentle woman s voice which whispered " Hope." 
 She wiped the cold sweat from the clammy brow, 
 And raised the sinking head, and tried to soothe 
 The anguish of yon crushed and broken thing, 
 Which could so lately call itself a man. 
 
130 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And, as his fainting breath gasped forth a sigh, 
 
 Then hushed itself in death, she bent her down, 
 
 Kissed the loved lips, then turned her to her babe, 
 
 And wrapping in her arms th unconscious thing, 
 
 Pointed to heaven and sighed, " Hope, mortal, hope." 
 
 And then, with smile of patient sufferance, bent 
 
 Her trembling steps to trace the troubled path 
 
 Of life s tumultuous course. And then methought, 
 
 As unsustained she tracked her timid way, 
 
 An angel form was near her, guiding still 
 
 Her tearful looks for ever tow rd the sky, 
 
 And whispering that a home of peace was there. 
 
 And ever as it propped her tottering steps, 
 
 To cheer that lone one, cast upon the world, 
 
 Its constant lesson was, " Hope, mortal, hope." 
 
 I gazed upon that angel -form, and knew 
 It was the power of Good, which conquered there. 
 Twas he who waked the star, who dropped the tear ; 
 Twas he, who called the snow-drop from its bed , 
 Twas he, who gave the timid mortal strength, 
 To hope, and hope, and hope in misery. 
 
THE STAR WHICH FOLLOWED ME. 
 
 IN childhood as beneath yon starry sky, 
 My tiny steps would track their devious way, 
 Still as in winding flight, or fast or slow, 
 Their varied course would turn, yon star shone down 
 Direct upon me still. Backward or forward, 
 Round and round, methought it followed still. 
 And well I loved it, for I deemed it shone 
 Only for me, and that it watched to bless me. 
 And in my youthful fancy it would wake 
 Dreams of far greater, brighter, happier things 
 Than the world held for others ; and it seemed 
 To talk of happiness and hope, and all, 
 And more, than fancy s wildest, fairest views, 
 And all for me ! Oh ! how I loved that star ! 
 And as I watched, and dreamed of all it promised, 
 Meseemed itself, perchance, might yet be mine ; 
 And I would stretch my longing arms, and call, 
 And almost wonder that it would not come, 
 12* 
 
138 MY DREAMS. 
 
 When thus I summoned it. I loved it with 
 A fancy, wandering, bright as its own rays ! 
 Ay, almost with a wild devotion, worshipped 
 That star which ever watched and followed me ! 
 And now, where is it ? 
 
 Lo ! in yonder sky, 
 
 Brightly it still shines on, but not for me ! 
 My childhood s dream is vanished, and I ve learned 
 Twas but to fancy s eye it followed me, 
 And that afar off, in unmeasured space, 
 It dwells, unconscious of my dreams, myself; 
 A world within itself, and no bright thing 
 To guide me, grovelling worm ! upon my way. 
 
 And now, proud science, that thy lesson s learned, 
 And childhood s errors have forgot themselves, 
 Perchance, I may be wiser, but alas ! 
 I ve lost, for ever lost, the star which followed me. 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF HOPE. 
 
 BRIGHT Hope, when first she came to earth, 
 To smile o er mankind s cloudy life, 
 
 Two beauteous daughters, at a birth, 
 Brought to this scene of wo and strife. 
 
 And both she saw so brightly fair, 
 
 So gentle, amiable and mild, 
 These two, she said, shall ease man s care 
 
 By them his woes shall be beguiled. 
 
 Fancy shall woo off sorrow s tear, 
 And gild the eye with smiles of joy ; 
 
 While Happiness shall follow near, 
 To hinder even Fear s alloy. 
 
 Nor did these beauteous nymphs belie 
 
 The words which their fond mother spoke, 
 
 For ever where they could descry 
 
 Fell Sorrow s bonds, his chain they broke. 
 
140 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And eyes that met them bathed in tears, 
 
 Scarce saw them ere to smile they learned; 
 
 And hearts which withered with life s cares, 
 To joy and health were soon returned. 
 
 But one day, as their course they bent, 
 To dry the tear, to hush the moan, 
 
 To heal the wound which Suffering sent, 
 Fancy found Happiness was gone. 
 
 And all in vain, alone, she tried 
 To do what both were wont to do ; 
 
 Men saw her, smiled, but then they sighed, 
 That Happiness was not there, too. 
 
 " And where is Happiness ?" they said, 
 
 " And why is Happiness away ?" 
 And then some whispered she was dead, 
 ^>ome, that to Heaven she winged her way. 
 
 Still Fancy smiled, " Come, follow me, 
 We ll find," she said, " the truant soon," 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF HOPE. 141 
 
 Men listened, as her smile they d see, 
 And followed, where she led them on. 
 
 But soon she found she d not the power 
 To give them all they from her asked ; 
 
 Tho from her sister s flight, each hour 
 Her every faculty she tasked. 
 
 Away then to Hope s home she flew, 
 Complained that she was now alone, 
 
 " If thou," she said, " to man art true, 
 Aid me, for Happiness is gone." 
 
 Hope started, " No, it is not so ! 
 
 Fancy," she said, " it cannot be ; 
 In search of Happiness I ll go, 
 
 And cannot fail aided by thee. 
 
 " We ll find her, wheresoe er she s hid, 
 Bring her once more to man s relief, 
 
 Once more, by us the truant led, 
 
 Shall come to war with Fear and Grief." 
 
142 MY DREAMS. 
 
 They started, and to find her strove ; 
 
 Nor tired, for Hope sought for her child, 
 And Fancy ne er could cease to love 
 
 That sister, who so brightly smiled. 
 
 They search, but still they cannot find, 
 While man, despairing, says she s dead ; 
 
 At least, that she has ceased to mind 
 His cares, and to high Heaven is fled. 
 
 But Hope and Fancy promise still, 
 Still bid us seek for Happiness, 
 
 Till e en while tears of sorrow fill 
 
 And cloud the eye we dream of bliss. 
 
THE FALLING STAR. 
 
 And the rivers, who, all the world must know, 
 Were in love with the stars ever since they could flow. 
 
 BULWER. 
 
 THE river that loved yon star so bright, 
 How soft was its plaintive tone, 
 
 As gazing it drank in the far-off light, 
 And joyed in those beams alone. 
 
 And how could it woo, away so far ? 
 
 It worshipped that distant one. 
 But a river ! Oh ! how could it reach as 
 
 It hoped not, but murmured on. 
 
 And aye as it wended its constant way, 
 It gazed on each beam that fell, 
 
 Till mirrored the star in its bosom lay, 
 And its bliss was, to watch it still. 
 
144 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And the star, did it always unheeding shine, 
 
 Of that river s silent prayer 1 
 Or perchance did its rays more brightly incline 
 
 To stamp its own image there 1 
 
 ***** 
 
 Silent was their love, 
 
 Each seemed doomed to live alone. 
 But from its seat above 
 
 That star, one night, was gone. 
 
 A brilliant meteor falling, 
 
 Thro the sky, twas seen to glide. 
 
 To that river s silent calling, 
 It, as silently, replied. 
 
 And we are not farther led, 
 
 In their hidden loves t explore ; 
 
 That star contented fled, 
 
 From its home of light and power. 
 
 Nor, perchance, would pity bid, 
 To bewail its fallen state ; 
 
THE FALLING STAR. 145 
 
 In that river s bosom hid, 
 
 May the star not love its fate? 
 * * * * # 
 
 Gently murmurs on the river, 
 
 In its murmuring tone is peace ; 
 Of that peace, the kindly giver, 
 
 Leaves in heaven its vacant place. 
 
 But in the lowly home t has sought, 
 There s quiet love, tho splendour flies. 
 
 Perchance, it deems not dearly bought 
 That home, where it forgotten lies. 
 
THE COMET. 
 
 HAST thou no resting-place, thou wandering thing ? 
 
 Art thou an emblem of the soul, which roams 
 
 Eternally, and seeks a home and rest ! 
 
 What art thou, that thou flashest o er us thus 
 
 In course eccentric ? Lo ! as some wanderer 
 
 Thou passest, a lone stranger through the sky, 
 
 And every star peeps forth, as if to watch 
 
 Thy meteor course, and as thou passest, pales 
 
 Its timid ray, and seems to whispering say, 
 
 " We know thee not, strange thing, thou rt not of us." 
 
 And in calm brightness, the pale moon looks down, 
 
 And thou, as t were a troubled spirit, shrink st 
 
 From her soft light, while with her gentle smile 
 
 She seems to say, " Wanderer, thou rt not of us." 
 
 And the earth answers her, from rustling leaves, 
 
 And wave, and murmuring stream, "Thou rt not of us." 
 
 Tis echoed through the universe. And thou, 
 
 Outcast from Heaven and Earth, whence art thou? Say, 
 
 Is thy wild light some evil thing which spreads, 
 
THE COMET. 147 
 
 As has been deemed, sickness and desolation ? 
 
 And dost thou bear with thee the curse of worlds, 
 
 Grim Famine, hungry War, thy satellites 1 
 
 Or art thou but some wandering discontent ? 
 
 Some thought, which may not find a resting-place, 
 
 Fixed to one constant round of endless change, 
 
 For ever wandering, and for ever doomed 
 
 To wander on alone ; teaching itself 
 
 To suffer ; gnawing itself, and bringing home 
 
 Its direst misery ? a misery 
 
 Of loneliness unshared, which nought can know 
 
 And nought can pity 1 and (for thou art alone,) 
 
 Men curse thee ; and they point as t were a scourge, 
 
 Precursor of strange ills, and trembling watch 
 
 Thy beaming course, which should be beautiful 
 
 But that they deem some new strange ill must follow. 
 
 Hast thou a thought to know thyself accursed, 
 
 And feel that all things hate thee ? an thou hast 
 
 E en in thy lofty state, I pity thee; 
 
 Bright, lonely one ; methinks to find a home 
 
 Thou dst hide thy rays, and sink to loneliness, 
 
 And shrink into the bosom of some cloud 
 
148 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Or drop into the ocean s billowy bed, 
 
 That all no more might shrink from thee, and say 
 
 " Strange thing, whence art thou ? thou art not of us." 
 
 Lo ! thou art gone. Perchance to seek for rest, 
 And the sky, which but now cast back thy beam, 
 Has lost thee, and with open smile it seems 
 As twould rejoice to find itself again 
 Free from thy fearful light. I pity thee, 
 That all things shun thee thus. E en tho thou wert 
 As foul as thought can paint, or fancy dream 
 Some demon spirit, bent on ill and wo, 
 Still I must pity thee, for thou rt alone, 
 And loneliness methinks is misery* 
 
THE GARDEN OF EXPERIENCE. 
 
 METHOUGHT a garden round me lay 
 
 With flowers of brightest hue ; 
 Each blossom, decked in colours gay, 
 Seemed vain its beauties to display, 
 And turned them to the view. 
 
 The rose, the tulip, woodbine too, 
 Their brightest hues displayed ; 
 The daisy, and the violet blue, 
 Bespread the ground, as if to woo 
 Light pleasure s airy tread. 
 
 A queen-like lily near me shed 
 
 Its fragrance, fresh and pure, 
 And as it bowed its snowy head, 
 To grasp its beauties I was led, 
 
 I touched, they were no more. 
 13* 
 
150 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And withering on its stem, it drooped, 
 
 As, weeping its decay, 
 We ve seen fresh youth, by sickness stooped 
 Towards the grave, which yawning oped 
 
 Its jaws, to ask its prey. 
 
 And quickly then I turned to cull 
 
 The rose s brighter bloom ; 
 But it too drooped ; and withering, dull 
 Those beauties which I sought to cull 
 
 Seemed fit but for the tomb. 
 
 Another and another yet 
 
 Midst these bright flowers I sought, 
 But still, while sweets I tried to get, 
 They withering, left me to regret 
 
 That aye my search was nought. 
 
 At length my fruitless toils I ceased, 
 
 And stood in wonder lost. 
 " And what," I cried, " all which is best, 
 My slightest touch seems to divest 
 
 Of all its beauty s boast." 
 
THE GARDEN OF EXPERIENCE. 151 
 
 But as I spoke, a figure sad 
 
 And mournful, near me stood ; 
 In sombre robes of sorrow clad, 
 She seemed to mourn each blossom dead, 
 
 And weep each withering bud. 
 
 " Tis not thy touch," she sighed, " but mine, 
 
 Which blights their opening bloom, 
 And vainly o er their fate I pine, 
 And vainly weep as they decline, 
 To crush them, is my doom. 
 
 " And aye where flowers brightest blow, 
 
 Where fragrant sweets most dwell, 
 As if the gathering hand to woo, 
 There most my power I m doomed to show, 
 There s none these sweets may cull. 
 
 " For ever as the grasping hand, 
 
 To gather them would try, 
 Tis mine their ruin to command, 
 Tis mine to wave the fatal wand, 
 
 Whose touch, must bid them die. 
 
152 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " This beauteous garden charms the eye, 
 
 As smiles the world to youth ; 
 But every promise brings its sigh, 
 The fresh heart aches to see it die, 
 And trembles at the truth. 
 
 " The brightest hues which now delight, 
 
 Must wither ere they re yours ; 
 Experience ever stands to blight 
 All that is loveliest to the sight, 
 To crush the sweetest flowers. 
 
 " Experience maketh wise, tis true, 
 
 But ah ! in tears man earns 
 The lesson, which but makes him rue, 
 What Wisdom laughs at, as untrue 
 
 He weeps at what he learns." 
 
LOVE, WISDOM, AND FOLLY. 
 
 WHEN Love first gan the world to range, 
 
 A country wild to him and new, 
 There s surely none will deem it strange, 
 
 That when from heaven s blest heights he flew, 
 He should seek out some friend, or brother, 
 
 Some one, to whom to look for aid, 
 The Baby God, who, from his mother 
 
 Had just broke loose, was still afraid 
 These unknown realms to wander through, 
 Where, mixed with pleasures, dangers grew. 
 
 And long within himself he thought 
 
 Who best could aid and guide him there ; 
 And as sometimes discourses fraught 
 
 With praise of Wisdom, on his ear 
 Had fallen while yet he was in heaven, 
 
 He thought he d look for her, and find, 
 If really to her power twas given, 
 
 To govern, sway, and rule mankind, 
 
154 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " And if," he said, " so great her might, 
 Who gainst our powers combined can fight?" 
 
 This once resolved, young Love soon went 
 
 To seek out Wisdom s lonely home. 
 He found her, deep in study bent, 
 
 O er an old, rusty, time-worn tome, 
 While Solitude was standing near, 
 
 To keep intruders far away, 
 And Thought, and Contemplation, there 
 
 Kept watch alike, both night and day. 
 Young Love was awe-struck at the group, 
 His pride forgot, and learned to stoop. 
 
 And bending low, to Wisdom he 
 
 Addressed himself, to ask her aid ; 
 While Contemplation frowned to see 
 
 That Wisdom stopped, her task delayed, 
 And while the smooth-tongued boy talked on, 
 
 Seemed pleased with all he had to say, 
 Till he more bold and easy grown, 
 
 While Wisdom smiled, now gan to play, 
 
LOVE, WISDOM, AND FOLLY. 155 
 
 Blotted her papers and her books, 
 
 And mocked grim Solitude s strange looks ; 
 
 Asked Wisdom, how she e er could bear 
 
 To live in gloomy scenes apart 
 From all mankind, in places drear, 
 
 For ever lab ring o er her art ; 
 Said he had heard much of her might, 
 
 The power which she by art had learned, 
 And thought it would be only right, 
 
 If to man s good this knowledge turned, 
 That at the same time Wisdom s name 
 Should rise to glory and to fame. 
 
 And then he sketched his journey s plan, 
 
 Told how the world he would subdue, 
 And laughed to think how helpless man 
 
 Would struggle, when his darts he threw : 
 And then he said, if Wisdom would 
 
 But put herself beneath his sway, 
 Their power could never be withstood, 
 
 The world they d govern in their way ; 
 
156 MY DREAMS. 
 
 " So come," he said, " be ruled by me, 
 None will resist, you soon will see." 
 
 Proud Wisdom started when she heard, 
 
 Love talk as though he thought to rule, 
 She scarce believed the saucy word 
 
 Could mean that Love would Wisdom school. 
 " I listened, Love, as long," said she, 
 
 " As Reason seemed to guide your speech, 
 But now you talk of ruling me, 
 
 A point, be sure you ne er will reach ; 
 For when you d Wisdom seek to school, 
 You show too plainly who s the fool." 
 
 Love, e en in Heaven, would ne er a word 
 
 Of harshness patiently endure, 
 And now, when Wisdom s speech he heard, 
 
 He vowed her pride he soon would cure. 
 You call me fool," he said ; tis well, 
 
 Light Folly s home I now will seek, 
 And when with her, Love deigns to dwell, 
 
 Two fools we ll be, but Wisdom weak, 
 
LOVE, WISDOM, AND FOLLY. 1 ,)7 
 
 Perhaps less proud than she is now, 
 Will e en to Love and Folly bow." 
 
 Full then of anger and disdain 
 
 Love to his threatening words was true ; 
 Wisdom s excuse he did not deign 
 
 To stop and hear, but off he flew ; 
 Leaving poor Wisdom rather sorry, 
 
 That she so hastily had spoken, 
 Somewhat repenting of the hurry, 
 
 By which all terms with Love were broken ; 
 For all his threats she little cared, 
 But that he d ne er come back she feared. 
 
 The flattering boy had pleased her so, 
 
 So much she grieved, now he was gone, 
 That were he back, she did not know, 
 
 But pride and power she might lay down, 
 To keep the little wanderer near, 
 
 Submitting to his tyrant sway ; 
 And then, (who would believe t) a tear 
 
 She shed, that Love had flown away ; 
 While Contemplation stood aghast, 
 At all which in her sight had past. 
 14 
 
158 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Meanwhile, Love had not wandered far, 
 
 E er smiling Folly crossed his path. 
 " Ah ha !" quoth Love, " by Jove, I swear, 
 
 She greater charms than Wisdom hath. 
 Why, she is smiling, fair, and gay, 
 
 More good-natured than Wisdom looks, 
 Who scarce would for one moment stay, 
 
 From pondering o er her musty books. 
 With Folly then I ll choose to stray ; 
 Come, beauteous Folly, let s away." 
 
 Folly, who had not Wisdom s fear 
 
 Of being by Love s power ruled, 
 Gave herself little thought or care, 
 
 As to how much she should be schooled. 
 Content to roam the world with Love, 
 
 Quite willing in his paths to tread, 
 She never dreamt to disapprove, 
 
 But followed on, where er he led. 
 She asked not, cared not, where he d rove, 
 Content, that she was led by Love. 
 
LOVE, WISDOM, AND FOLLY. 159 
 
 Together so well pleased they were, 
 
 That seldom, now, they go apart, 
 Where Love is, Folly s surely near ,* 
 
 She has the head where he the heart. 
 And if it e er is Wisdom s lot 
 
 To meet this well-contented pair, 
 Love shows, that he hath ne er forgot 
 
 The vengeance which he once did swear ; 
 While Wisdom, grown more humble now, 
 Will e en to Love and Folly bow. 
 
 For spite of reason, she will still, 
 
 To please the little God aspire. 
 And though he frowns, and treats her ill, 
 
 She tries to pacify his ire. 
 But all her efforts still prove vain, 
 
 For still the God, to show his spleen, 
 In heads which once owned Wisdom s reign, 
 
 Makes Folly undisputed queen ; 
 And spite of all poor Wisdom s art, 
 She rules the head, where he the heart. 
 

 TIS BUT THEE, LOVE, ONLY THEE. 
 
 WHERE the sunbeam glanceth brightest, 
 
 There my love, I think on thee. 
 Where the summer breeze is lightest, 
 
 Still of thee, and only thee. 
 Where the gently murmuring stream, 
 Lulls to soft and placid dream, 
 Who for ever lingers near me ? 
 Who but thee, love ? only thee ! 
 
 And if fear, or dark misgiving, 
 
 Hover round with evening s gloom, 
 
 Fancy s tissues darkly weaving, 
 Tracing sorrows yet to come ; 
 
 Still, one shadow lingering near, 
 
 Even scenes like these are dear. 
 
 Who the angel hovering near me ? 
 
 Who but thee, love? only thee ! 
 
TIS BUT THEE, LOVE, ONLY THEE. 161 
 
 Thus in hope, and thus in sorrow, 
 
 Fancy paints thy shadow near, 
 Thou the brightener of each morrow, 
 
 Thou, the soother of each care. 
 And the sun which gives me light, 
 And the star which gilds my night, 
 And the lingering hope to cheer me, 
 Tis but thee, love ! only thee ! 
 
BIRTH OF THE EVERGREEN. 
 
 GAY Hope in a frolicksome humour one day, 
 From her suitors fond glances kept hiding away, 
 And now in the fresh grass, and now in a flower, 
 She managed to tease them, for many an hour. 
 
 At last in a thick bush so closely she hid, 
 That defeated and vexed they at length gan to chide, 
 And called on the loiterer, and prayed her to hear, 
 But she laughed at their trouble, and mocked at their 
 prayer. 
 
 So pleasant the green bush wherein she had crept, 
 That wearied with sporting the frolic thing slept ; 
 While her followers, impatient, at last in dismay, 
 Gan to mourn, as they deemed she had quite fled away. 
 
 Great Jove, who on business of state was engaged, 
 Disturbed by this tumult, confusion, and row, 
 
 Asked not for its cause, but perplexed, and enraged, 
 Issued orders to stop all that Babel below. 
 
BIRTH OF THE EVERGREEN. 
 
 For his lightning bolts quickly one messenger flew, 
 An4 one^ brought a cloud, &em whence they might 
 
 dart them ; 
 
 But one glance, ere the murderous weapons they threw, 
 They cast down on men, ere so sadly they hurt them. 
 
 They saw the bright angel who downward had traced, 
 Her course from that sky where no longer she d stop, 
 
 For she found herself up there too sadly misplaced, 
 They re happy in heaven, and cannot need Hope. 
 
 They saw that she frolicked with fond man below, 
 But to make him more true, (while her fair form em 
 bracing,) 
 
 When once more on his bosom she d smilingly throw 
 Herself, the bright vision, which ever he s chasing. 
 
 They thought it a pity, so harshly to deal 
 
 With the weak things, who had quite enough to tor- 
 
 ment them, 
 Decided that mild means would do quite as well, 
 
 And so, cast back the lightnings to Vulcan, who sent 
 them. 
 
164 MY DREAMS. 
 
 But still, as great Jupiter s orders had bound them 
 The chattering tongues of us pigmies to quiet, 
 
 They sought other means, and full quickly they found 
 
 them, 
 To hush and confound all the turmoil and riot. 
 
 They took that dark cloud which its thunder had lost, 
 With crystal drops hung, and just ready to fall, 
 
 They filled it with snow, and with ice, and with frost, 
 And they aimed it direct o er our riotous bail. 
 
 And they called the North Wind, and they bade him 
 to blow, 
 
 Till earth and her children in icicles blended, 
 Perforce would be stilled ; ere again they might thaw, 
 
 Great Jove would, perhaps, all his business have ended. 
 
 Hoarse blew the loud blast, and right angry he was ; 
 
 From his afternoon nap, they had wakened him 
 
 roughly, 
 And sure such disturbance is quite enough cause, 
 
 To make an old gentleman act rather gruffly. 
 
BIRTH OF THE EVERGREEN. 165 
 
 And the snow fell in flakes, and the hail pelted bravely, 
 And the frost did its duty as well as the rest. 
 
 Poor man was soon brought to comport himself gravely, 
 And Earth s noise Heaven s councils now no more 
 distrest. 
 
 Hushed were its voices, all was chilled, 
 
 Flowers were blighted, buds were nipped, 
 Streamlets, which so brightly rilled, 
 
 Where the bird its nectar sipped, 
 Ere he carolled forth his lay, 
 Still might glitter in the ray 
 
 Of the all unfrozen Sun, 
 But it was with such false shining, 
 As but wakes the vain repining, 
 
 (When its troubled course is done,) 
 Of the heart that trusts the seeming 
 
 Of a world, which all seems bliss, 
 Catches at its cheating beaming, 
 
 And but grasps a thing of ice. 
 Withered was each greenest bough, 
 
 Flowrets drooped at winter s breath, 
 
166 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Every leaf had changed its hue, 
 Frighted at th approach of death. 
 
 Past was summer s glory, 
 
 Earth one ruined waste, 
 Like some bygone story, 
 
 All its beauties past. 
 
 But lo ! still one bush, which now greener than ever, 
 Contrasted with all that was withering round, 
 
 Smiled on, by the bank of the cold, frozen river ; 
 
 Why so green were its unblighted branches still found 1 
 
 Twas that midst them a charm lay the frosts to disarm, 
 And the blast shrunk away from its beauties un 
 injured ; 
 
 For Hope there, unconscious of all the alarm, 
 
 Slept, close in the hiding-place where she had lingered. 
 
 There Hope was still sleeping, 
 While nature was weeping, 
 
BIRTH OF THE EVERGREEN. 167 
 
 She slept, and she dreamed, and she smiled in her dream, 
 
 And the blast which was sweeping 
 
 By, touched her not sleeping, 
 
 For she dreamed as she slept, and she smiled in her 
 dream. 
 
 And man who was shrinking, 
 
 In agony sinking, 
 As his eye turned towards its unwithering green, 
 
 Deemed that him it was linking 
 
 To Hope, tho still shrinking, 
 And smiled as he murmured, " Tis green, ever green" 
 

 THE SOUL OF A SOUND. 
 
 As the wind sweepeth by, o er yon harp-strings which 
 
 now 
 
 Lay in idleness mute, (while no power was bringing 
 To life its soft tones,) hark ! how startlingly grow, 
 
 And burst through the air, in wild melody springing, 
 Those notes which the power that could wake them, 
 
 but waited, 
 Darting forth to the touch, which in wooing, created. 
 
 Waked by fairy fingers, 
 
 Their voices are unbound, 
 Some gentle spirit lingers 
 
 In every trembling sound. 
 
 Oh ! say not that they breathe unknowing, 
 
 Their own soft tone. 
 Oh ! say not, while these notes are flowing, 
 
 Themselves alone, 
 Are all unconscious of the pleasure, 
 Waked by the wild and airy measure. 
 
THE SOUL OF A SOUND. 169 
 
 Oh ! say not thus, but rather find 
 
 A spirit in each wildest note, 
 Which, borne upon the passing wind 
 
 Dies with the tones which o er us float. 
 
 A light thing which e en summer flies 
 
 May dare to mock as all ideal ; 
 Yet ere the earthborn trembler dies, 
 
 Its little life has bade us feel. 
 
 Hark ! its sweet sound floats through the air, 
 
 Wild, but how tremulously soft ; 
 Now sinks, as though twere taught to fear 
 
 Its own sweet tones, now bursts aloft. 
 
 And now, a dying cadence thrills 
 In whispered notes, the listening ear, 
 
 And now, again, a fresh note fills, 
 Then floats away upon the air. 
 
 And sinking, trembling as it goes, 
 Fainter the airy sound is thrown 
 
 15 
 
170 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Around us, and a dying close 
 
 Whispered we hear, and now tis gone. 
 
 Gone, like the fading light of day, 
 Which trembles o er the Ocean s face ; 
 
 Gone, like life s joys which pass away, 
 And fading die, and leave no trace ; 
 
 Save one, one thought that memory 
 Summons to mourn their sweetness fled, 
 
 Whispering the heart, that misery 
 Builds on the tomb of pleasures dead. 
 
HER HOPE IS IN THE GRAVE. 
 
 SURE, Nature made that eye for smiles 
 Whence comes the tear that clouds it? 
 
 Instead of all Love s witching wiles, 
 Tis sadness ever shrouds it. 
 
 Sure, Nature meant that heart for bliss 
 Whence comes the labouring sorrow, 
 
 Which paints with grief the pallid face, 
 And casts almost a furrow, 
 
 Upon her brow, the track of Care, 
 
 Which marks his withering progress there ? 
 
 Tis that life s morning hour, 
 Has seen its brightest flower 
 
 Wither and pass away. 
 Tis that the daylight s beam 
 Of youth, with sickly gleam, 
 
 Fades with its new-born rav. 
 
172 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 All ! life has cast its poison there, 
 
 Embittered all it gave, 
 For Memory, lingering everywhere, 
 
 Points to one new-made grave. 
 One grave, where Sorrow ever sits, 
 
 Where Joy has hid his head, 
 Nor Hope with rainbow visions flits, 
 
 For there, her hope is laid. 
 Life only mocks her woes by seeming 
 
 Some other joys to leave ; 
 For how can she of joy be dreaming? 
 
 Her Hope is in the grave. 
 
 We cannot always anguish feel, 
 
 And deepest wounds that tear 
 The tortured breast at last may heal, 
 
 But still they leave a scar. 
 The grass upon yon grave may grow, 
 
 Her smile once more return, 
 And pleasure s beam again may throw 
 
 Its ray, where all s forlorn. 
 
HER HOPE IS IN THE GRAVE. 173 
 
 But though that eye may brightly beam, 
 
 That heart more lightly beat, 
 They have not, howsoe er they seem, 
 
 Youth s brightness, nor its heat. 
 
 For Grief has held despotic reign, 
 
 Nor monarch once will leave 
 His vacant throne, unclaimed by pain, 
 
 Her hope is in the grave. 
 
 Its shadow mingling with the glow 
 
 Of sunniest scenes, will cleave 
 To every fairest dream, and show 
 
 Her first hope in the grave. 
 
 Though nature s storm may pass away, 
 
 Unclouded shine the sun, 
 The heart has ne er that second ray, 
 
 Bright as the one that s gone. 
 
 Then, tho from out the wreck that lies 
 In shattered fragments round, 
 15* 
 
174 MY DREAMS. 
 
 She still may hope to cull some joys, 
 Some comfort may be found, 
 
 She may not, must not, hope for one 
 So bright a joy to save, 
 
 As the first, too dearly loved and gone. 
 The hope that s in the grave. 
 
 FORGET THEE! 
 
 FORGET thee ! no, never. How can I forget, 
 When the sun in yon heaven thine impress has set ? 
 For bright as his beam is the glance of thine eye, 
 And soft is thy smile as the blue, cloudless sky. 
 
 In the starlight of even, I still think thee near, 
 And thy voice in the whispers of zephyr I hear. 
 The thought of thee wakes in the stillness of night, 
 And lingers around me in Luna s soft light. 
 
FORGET THEE. 175 
 
 In ocean it murmurs, and sleeps on the wave, 
 Casting back to the sun the bright light that he gave, 
 Or reflects on its bosom the bright beaming star, 
 Whose wandering rays come to woo from afar. 
 
 It dwells in each flower, it sighs in each breeze, 
 For beauty and sweetness are mingled in these ; 
 While all nature speaks of thee, then vain would it be, 
 To seek to drive f.om me the memory of thee. 
 
 Forget thee ! No, never. While earth has a spot, 
 Where beauty is dwelling, thou art not forgot ; 
 For in all that is bright, or is soft, or is fair, 
 Thy memory lingers, thy spirit is there. 
 
TO A FLY. 
 
 AWAY, away, thou buzzing thing, 
 
 What art thou to thus torment me 
 With thy bustling, idle wing? 
 
 What strange vanity has lent thee 
 Such an overweening dream 
 Of thyself, that thou should st deem 
 Me (so far above thee born ) 
 One whom thou may st buzz and turn 
 And fret and murmur round, as twere 
 Some equal that, thou fanciest here ? 
 A thing but born like thee to play 
 
 And dance away an idle hour. 
 Away, thou restless plague, away ! 
 
 Nor tempt me to display my power. 
 Know I was born for nobler things, 
 And have no time to lose on thee. 
 Sec life, her radiant visions brings 
 To greet my sight, and I am free 
 
TO A FLY- 
 
 To choose the dazzling scenes among, 
 Or fame, or love, or riches, flung 
 E en at my feet ; or may I stray 
 In learning s mystic paths, and see 
 Deep science s mysteries ; then away, 
 Trifler, I ve nought to do with thee. 
 Youth smiles upon me ; life is new, 
 Hope is beckoning, Joy in view ; 
 What have I to do with thee ? 
 Thou thing of nothing ! What with me 1 
 
 ***** 
 Life is passing. Have I found 
 
 Those bright things it promised 1 Where 
 Lingers now the magic ground 
 
 To my cheated sight so near ? 
 Yonder in the distance gleaming 
 
 Far away, far away, 
 Brightest things are round it beaming, 
 
 Far away, far away. 
 
 Buzzing thing, I spurned thee harshly, 
 True, thou triflest life away, 
 
 177 
 
178 MY DREAMS. 
 
 But perchance twas all too rashly 
 I condemned thy frolic play. 
 
 Glorious visions bade me spurn thee 
 As a thing too mean to slight, 
 
 Half I from these visions turn me, 
 Now to mark thy airy flight. 
 * * * * 
 
 Passing, passing, life is passing, 
 
 Where s the halo of its youth ? 
 Where the shadows I ve been tracing? 
 
 Fade they at the glance of truth 1 
 Glimmering yonder far away, 
 
 Farther yet, farther yet, 
 Scarce we catch their fading ray, 
 
 Farther yet, farther yet. 
 
 Buzzing trifler, can it be, 
 
 That like thine, my hour is past ; 
 
 Fretting round, that I like thee, 
 End with nothing found, at last ? 
 
 Only thou, perchance more wise, 
 
 Contented sought st no higher bourne ; 
 
TO A FLY. 179 
 
 I proudly could thy course despise, 
 
 And aimed at more, and failed, and mourn. 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 No more passing, now tis done, 
 
 Life is past, life is past, 
 All its fading visions gone, 
 
 Past, all now are past. 
 
 Hither turn thee, buzzing thing, 
 On thy careless, fluttering wing, 
 Kindly I can greet thee now, 
 For I ve learned too well to know, 
 My life, like thine, an endless chase, 
 Where all we find is change of place, 
 New scenes to drive the old away 
 Mine passed in labour, thine in play ; 
 No more I spurn thee, thoughtless one, 
 For nought remains, tho both are gone, 
 One only lesson learned, I find 
 That lesson which makes harshness kind, 
 And humbles pride, and teaches man, 
 More justly his own rights to scan ; 
 
180 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Nor deem that he is made to spurn, 
 Or with contemptuous glance to turn 
 E en from a buzzing thing like thee. 
 That lesson is humility ; 
 The truest, last, and wisest thing, 
 Which life in varying search can bring. 
 A lesson built upon the wrecks 
 
 Of shattered hopes, pride crushed to earth. 
 E en where our fancied Wisdom breaks 
 
 Her useless wand, the true has birth. 
 
MY DREAM CHILD. 
 
 IT came on a beam from yon heaven-lit star, 
 
 And I knew not but darkly the things which it spoke ; 
 
 But tho strange were its tones as they fell on my ear, 
 My heart beat with fear, lest its spell should be broke. 
 
 It came on a rain-drop, as pure as the tear 
 
 Which trembles and glistens in Innocence eye, 
 
 And its whispers were strange as some far-distant sphere, 
 And I loved it, my heart knew, words cannot say 
 why. 
 
 It came in the silence, when quiet was flung 
 
 O er earth, nor winds whispered, nor murmured the 
 
 stream. 
 In the stillness it lingering over me hung, 
 
 And my heart throbbed to clasp it, the child of my 
 dream. 
 
 16 
 
182 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And wild were the thoughts that it waked in my soul, 
 And wild were the feelings it roused in my breast, 
 
 My being was wrapped in its presence, and full 
 
 Of things and of thoughts which must die unexpressed. 
 
 And I knew them not ; 
 
 They were strangers there ; 
 
 Not of thoughts forgot, 
 
 Nor of things, tho fair, 
 That ever my mortal eye had loved ; 
 They were wanderers from far realms that roved ; 
 They were nor of earth, nor of air, nor of sea, 
 They were things which are not, which may not be ; 
 Thoughts of a dream, which come and go; 
 Thoughts we may feel, but may not show ; 
 Thoughts which are born for ourselves alone ; 
 Thoughts we must mourn when they are gone. 
 
 Bright as beam of heavenly birth, 
 Pure as rain-drop from on high, 
 
 Ere it meets the soil of earth, 
 Comes it from yon ether sky. 
 
 
SPIRIT OF THE STORM. 
 
 183 
 
 
 The child of my dream, thought s untamed creation, 
 Which bends o er its parent in silent compassion, 
 To wake some wild fancy that soothes life away, 
 And makes me forget the tired thing called to-day. 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE STORM. 
 
 WILD spirit of the storm, who rid st the blast, 
 
 And in the growling thunder speak st thy rage, 
 
 Would I could soar with thee ! 
 Untamed, unfettered, roaming through the vast 
 
 Expanse of universe from age to age, 
 
 Tis thine, thine ! to be free ! 
 Tis mine, to lie, and grovel in the dust, 
 
 And wonder at thy might, 
 And in admiring amazement lost, 
 
 To tremble at the terrors of fhy fearful night. 
 
 But no ! with thee my spirit longs to rise, 
 It doth not tremble. Genius of the storm ! 
 
184 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Thou art but tameless, wild, 
 As I would be, could I enfranchise 
 
 My chained being, cast off the grovelling worm 
 
 Nature s untamed storm-child, 
 With thee the whirlwind in its might I d ride, 
 
 Revel in the howling blast, 
 Play with the forked lightnings, and deride 
 
 The timorous world, by thee with weary fears harassed. 
 
 Borne on the hurricane s extended wing, 
 
 And in the whirlwind sweeping over earth 
 
 Then in the billowy deep, 
 To wake the voice of Discord, mastering 
 
 The ocean s stillness, to riot giving birth 
 
 In those still caves, where sleep 
 In silent majesty is wont to reign, 
 
 Would I could roam with thee ! 
 The throbbing wish bounds in my every vein, 
 
 Wild spirit of the storm ! like thee, I would be free. 
 
PRETTY FANNY. 
 
 REARED in shades and sweet seclusion, 
 Far from worldly noise and strife, 
 
 Fanny, free from man s intrusion, 
 Passed her tranquil, happy life. 
 
 Friends, tis true, she had not many, 
 But a Grandame good and wise 
 
 Ruled the thoughts of pretty Fanny, 
 More than learned, in her eyes. 
 
 Not the Delphic priestess ever, 
 
 Pythoness, or Sibyl, grave, 
 To her votaries could deliver 
 
 Such wise saws as Grannie gave. 
 
 To dispute them, pretty Fanny 
 
 Would have thought the strangest thing ! 
 Who could know so well as Grannie? 
 
 Who could such wise reasons bring? 
 16* 
 
186 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Thus lite passed its happy morning 
 Like the dawn of" summer s day ; 
 
 Innocence each spot adorning 
 With her dew-drop s purest ray. 
 
 But the quiet waking over, 
 
 Fanny sighs, she knows not why ; 
 
 Grannie s wisdom to discover, 
 Still her docile heart doth try. 
 
 Spurns not at the dullest lesson, 
 
 Which her childish ear hath schooled ; 
 
 Owns by prudence and discretion, 
 Maidens should be always ruled. 
 
 Ne er disputes for Grandame says 
 That man s a heartless, false deceiver ; 
 
 Believes from him, a maiden s ways, 
 Tis Heaven s best mercy to deliver ; 
 
 Owns that wives have much to suffer ; 
 That such fate tis wise to dread ; 
 
PRETTY FANNY. 187 
 
 Thinks a husband or a lover 
 Is a thing to shun indeed ; 
 
 Deems the wisest thing for Fanny 
 
 Is to fly his flattering tongue ; 
 But sometimes wonders what her Grannie 
 
 Thought of men, when she was young. 
 
 Tis very strange, but not less certain, 
 
 Once she was a wedded wife 
 Fanny sighed, and dropped the curtain, 
 
 O er that blot in Grannie s life. 
 
 But in sighing, still she ponders 
 
 How that false deceiver, man, 
 With his tongue could do such wonders, 
 
 More than Grannie s wisdom can. 
 
 While she lingered thus o er cases 
 
 For philosophy too deep, 
 Lost in theoretic mazes, 
 
 Fanny s prudence fell asleep. 
 
J88 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And one day, when o er her bending, 
 Softly woo d a lovesick youth, 
 
 All these thoughts, their shadows blending, 
 For herself she sought the truth. 
 
 " Perchance," the gentle sceptic dreaming, 
 Whispered to her timid heart 
 
 " Perchance tis but to Grannie s seeming, 
 That men act so sad a part ; 
 
 " Surely there is nought so fearful 
 In the gentle voice I hear, 
 
 I ll look tho I ll be very careful- 
 See if there s really much to fear." 
 
 Fanny boldly thus resolving, 
 
 Tow rds the youth her eyes doth bend ; 
 Perhaps, she hoped by thus revolving 
 
 Their magic orbs, to chase the fiend. 
 
 Alas ! the fate of sceptics ever, 
 Waited on poor Fanny s doubt. 
 
PRETTY FANNY. 189 
 
 Dare but one pris ner to deliver, 
 He s sure to let another out. 
 
 The eye that, with love s radiance beaming, 
 Caught the glance of pretty Fanny, 
 
 Oped such worlds to her wild dreaming, 
 That quite forgot was poor old Grannie. 
 
 Men were false she never doubted, 
 
 But he whispered, they were true. 
 Twas strange how much that whisper routed, 
 
 What resistance it o erthrew. 
 
 Men were fickle, harsh, unkind, 
 
 What a world of faults disgraced them ! 
 
 But he smiled, and Fanny s mind 
 
 Deemed that Grannie had misplaced them. 
 
 Thus from doubt to doubt she threaded 
 
 Grannie s lessons all forgot 
 Fanny soon was what she dreaded, 
 
 And a wedded life her lot. 
 
190 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Would ye follow pretty Fanny ? 
 
 Learn the end of her career ? 
 Perchance you ll find some withered Grannie, 
 
 Lecturing in a maiden s ear. 
 
 While the blooming lass, ne er doubting, 
 All her lessons sage receives ; 
 
 Till one glance their phalanx routing, 
 Like her Grannie, she believes. 
 
THE BRIGHT SUN. 
 
 THE bright sun ! the bright sun ! 
 
 He smiles though our tears flow, 
 The bright sun ! the bright sun ! 
 He smiles upon our wo. 
 Upon the earth, 
 In wo or mirth, 
 Alike he smiles unceasing, 
 And care may sleep, 
 Or bid us weep 
 Without his smiles decreasing. 
 The bright sun ! the bright sun ! 
 He smiles tho our tears flow, 
 The bright sun ! the bright sun ! 
 He smiles upon our wo. 
 
 Oh ! is it that he mocks, 
 
 Alike man s griefs and cares, 
 
 And high in glory stalks, 
 Unconscious of our tears ? 
 
102 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Or doth he smile, 
 
 But to beguile 
 Our suffering and our sorrow ? 
 
 Sent by the God 
 
 Who marks his road 
 To bid us hope to-morrow ? 
 The bright sun ! the bright sun ! 
 He smiles, tho our tears flow, 
 But kindly smiles the bright sun, 
 Tis to beguile our wo. 
 
THE MIRAGE. 
 
 As phantom shapes on sea or sand, 
 Waked by the mirage fairy hand, 
 
 Light and gay, 
 
 Bid Fancy play, 
 
 While the weary wanderer smiling 
 Hails their lovely forms beguiling : 
 
 As they vanish at his tread, 
 
 Castle, hill, and valley, fled ; 
 Vale and mountain, 
 Stream and fountain, 
 
 Leave the desert and the sea, 
 
 One trackless waste, one boundless way 
 
 
 
 Thus our dreams, asleep or waking, 
 Brightest forms and visions taking, 
 Not from earth, 
 They hold their birth, 
 17 
 
194 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And at mortal touch they die ; 
 
 We may gaze, approach, they fly. 
 
 Flitting through th abstracted mind, 
 When earth, with all the cares that bind 
 
 Our grovelling way 
 
 To things of clay, 
 Leaves us happy, leaves us free 
 To fancy all that may not be. 
 
 Seem they not of heavenly birth 7 
 Sky-born things, come down to earth ? 
 Lightning s gleam] 
 Stars which beam ? 
 Stooping from their high career, 
 To light and bless, and cheer us here ? 
 
 So pure, twere vain to try to grasp, 
 We may dream, but dare not clasp. 
 
 Fade they must, 
 
 Mortal dust 
 
 May not touch them ; mirage fair, 
 They have vanished into air. 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 UNWALLED, thrown open 
 To the public gaze, the vulgar tread, 
 Yon ruined churchyard lies. Forgotten now 
 The tales of wo these little mounds once told ; 
 Forgotten, yet Imagination s eye 
 Discovers still the sorrows they revealed, 
 And, peeping neath the grassy turf, may read 
 Where mouldering bones lie shrinking from the day, 
 Hiding themselves beneath fresh budding flowers, 
 E en as tired hearts will wrap themselves from light, 
 Concealing in the dark recess of thought, 
 Their worn-out strength, their fearful rottenness, 
 And deck with smiles an ever-varying brow, 
 Which wraps their veiled sorrows, as yon turf, 
 In its green bosom, holds embraced a corpse, 
 Seeming the fresher and the gayer, for 
 The rotten thing, which mouldering, crumbles there. 
 
196 MY DREAMS. 
 
 See, here and there, some rnossy stone declares, 
 One raised above the common herd there sleeps. 
 Tis here, perhaps, the venerable sire, 
 The patriarch of the village, lowly lies 
 Unconscious of the tears his loss calls forth ; 
 By him unheeded rise the plaints of wo, 
 No longer now he hears the voice of grief, 
 No longer now his ready hand is raised 
 To hush its clamourings. Here he sleeps, and here 
 Want wails a father, misery weeps a friend. 
 
 A little farther here to dust returned 
 Behold the statesman lies. Ambition s slave, 
 By fame and glory s glittering bait drawn on, 
 He sought new honours, rose above the sphere 
 Of this his little world. The village left, 
 His humble birth despised, he seeks, he gains 
 All that the world can give ; but all being gained, 
 He, sighing, feels the want of something more ; 
 Earth s glittering toys are shattered in his grasp, 
 Her gilded baubles show their nothingness ; 
 Deluded, grieved, he throws the world away, 
 And comes to lay his bones with kindred dust. 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 197 
 
 Life s visionary joys, her little cares 
 
 All passed alike, oblivion now has seized. 
 
 But see yon grave, with summer flowers decked, 
 The emblems of its tenant. Bright they bloom, 
 To-jday how frailly fair, to-morrow, gone ! 
 Twas thus with her whose grave they now adorn. 
 The village beauty she, so gentle, fair, 
 That all must love. So good, no rival mourned 
 Her far excelling charms. Beloved, admired, 
 She knew her beauty s power, and although 
 A little pride might sometimes swell her breast 
 When all adored, twas Nature bade it rise, 
 And quick twas checked by wiser thoughts. 
 None ever called her proud ; none called her vain. 
 But there s one common doom for all of earth, 
 And with the vilest, fairest flowers must die. 
 The Autumn leaves fall thickest, but in Spring 
 The blighting mildew, or the chilling blast 
 May nip them in the bud, and bid them fade. 
 Thus passed she, like the bud whose tender bloom, 
 By some untoward blast a lingering sigh 
 Of Winter, ere he sinks into his grave 
 Too early stricken, droops its head and dies, 
 17* 
 
198 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Ere yet its blighted bloom had learned to know, 
 Why it was born to deck this changing world. 
 Its lesson all unlearned it shrank away 
 From the rude touch which on life s threshold met 
 Its tender bloom. Perchance, but happier in 
 
 
 
 Its early fate. It might have lived to ope ; 
 
 Then to be crushed by some unthinking hand ; 
 
 Or in its blooming beauties gathered but 
 
 To be the scorn and mockery, e en of those 
 
 Who plucked it from its stem, and cast it forth 
 
 To wither neath the stern decree, which dooms 
 
 To ignominy and shame, the trembling thing, 
 
 Whose weakness may not let it dare a world, 
 
 Too harsh, too cold, for aught which has not strength 
 
 To meet the torrent, and the whirlwind crash, 
 
 The wild commotion of an o erwrought mind; 
 
 Or, ceding to its maddening influence, stand 
 
 To boldly face the chilling, icy blast, 
 
 That hisses o er it, shame and obloquy. 
 
 She died. And round her tomb we fancy still m 
 
 That voice, whose thrilling sound so sweetly tuned 
 
 Its modulated tones to gentlest thoughts. 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 199 
 
 Its soft tones speak of death ; yet if we weep, 
 We dare not weep for her, but for ourselves. 
 Ourselves, who linger here to watch the fading 
 Of fairest things, which frailest, e en are dearest. 
 That very weakness which we tremble for 
 Wakes hourly some new fear, and fear wakes hope, 
 Until our thought and being all seem wrapped 
 To shield the fragile thing from every breath, 
 Which sways it, tottering on its pedestal. 
 It falls, and gazing o er its shattered wrecks, 
 We scarce can deem that centre of our mind, 
 That object round which all our feelings cling, 
 That idol of our heart, has passed away, 
 And we are lingering here. We touch ourselves, 
 As though misdoubting life, and wondering if 
 Ourselves are breathing, thinking, sentient things, 
 Or, but the phantasms of some wild thought, 
 Strange, hideous nothings, which must pass away 
 And leave l4iu puiu uii 1 , uorno Ivusy&rJfa* 
 Dread spectre, which thus mocks us with ourselves. 
 We touch, and start to feel that we are still 
 
200 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Sensible, palpable, and full of being, 
 While IT lies there, a thing, but not of life. 
 
 But whose is this 1 the low, the lonely grave ? 
 No kindly hand has scattered flowerets here ; 
 No weeping mourner here bewails the loss 
 Of father, brother, friend. No kindred tear 
 Bedews his turf; no sympathizing eye 
 Has marked the spot where the lone wanderer lies. 
 A stranger, poor, deserted, and alone, 
 Life had no friendly hand to ease its load, 
 And death no comfort to allay its pang. 
 The wandering, friendless, houseless stranger, here 
 At last has found the resting-place he sought ; 
 At length he now no longer stands alone ; 
 No longer now his heaving bosom pants, 
 And seeks in every fellow-man a friend. 
 Neglected, and alone, he breathed his last. 
 In agony he moaned ; no answering sigh 
 Responsive rose. One tear, one struggling groan, 
 One gasping sigh, and the world fades before him : 
 Its last wild hope, his heart hath throbbed away ; 
 No more its noisy beatings cheat his ear, 
 And bid him catch some passing footstep s tread, 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 201 
 
 E en in that sound which speaks his solitude. 
 No more the gurgling of his spasm d throat, 
 In the dead stillness echoed loudly back 
 Upon his listening ear, bids him arouse 
 His dying powers, and turning, think to find 
 Some kindly lingerer o er his dying couch. 
 Tis done ; and (as his tired heart) for him, 
 The world and all its turmoil, now is still. 
 
 How silent is the grave ! Forgotten here 
 Life s agitating dream, in quiet lie 
 Mingling their dust, " th oppressor, and th oppressed." 
 The poor, the rich, the humble, and the proud, 
 Alike each has his little spot of earth, 
 And none, the most ambitious, wishes more. 
 Here ends our every hope, our every fear ; 
 Here avarice forgets to hoard, and here 
 Ambition s dreams must end. Here poverty 
 No longer pines. Here misery s sighs are hushed. 
 Here all may rest, in quiet undisturbed. 
 The dead may rest, but here the living mourn, 
 As o er the earthy tenements they bend 
 Of those they love. Lo ! where a mother stands, 
 
202 MY DREAMS. 
 
 In speechless, lost, bewildered agony. 
 
 Her one, her only hope, her cherished boy, 
 
 Untimely snatched by Death s relentless hand, 
 
 She seeks to weep, but tears refuse to flow ; 
 
 Her bursting heart weeps blood. She seeks to pray, 
 
 But on her faltering tongue, the accents die ; 
 
 Her wandering thoughts no longer seek her God ; 
 
 Her head and heart, alike, are filled, they burst, 
 
 With the one, sole, and all-engrossing thought, 
 
 Her one, her only stay, her hope, is gone ! 
 
 A little farther, here a father stands, 
 Bowed less with age than grief. A single tear 
 Drawn from the bosom s agony, flows down 
 His manly cheek ; unchecked, unbidden flows ; 
 He knows nor feels it not ; his heaving breast 
 Seems rising gainst its load, as t could repel 
 The grief which weighs upon it. Snatch d in youth s 
 
 prime, 
 
 He mourns to him, the loveliest, and the best ; 
 His age s comfort, and his brightest hope 
 In life s decline ; the last connecting link 
 Which bound to earth his wishes arid his hopes. 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 203 
 
 All now lie buried in the grave of her, 
 
 The last of all who lived, to call him father. 
 
 But hark ! what shriek is that which sudden breaks 
 
 Upon the silence of this still retreat, 
 
 And echoing through the chambers of the dead, 
 
 Thrills on each heart, and hushes every moan t 
 
 Each listener, startled from his own despair, 
 
 Feels there s an agony which can exceed 
 
 The gnawing grief, which bids his heartstrings crack ; 
 
 Each for one moment quite forgets his wo, 
 
 And shuddering asks, from whence the fearful sound ? 
 
 Behold ! tis here. The lovely maniac darts 
 
 Across my path. And hark ! another shriek 
 
 Of wild despair, rings through the vaulted heaven ! 
 
 And then a long, loud, hollow laugh, which seems 
 
 To mock the startled echoes, which repeat 
 
 From hill to hill, the dismal cry of wo. 
 
 Now, at the foot of yonder grave she falls, 
 
 And pleads the quick return of him she loves ; 
 
 And chides, and wonders that he stays so long ; 
 
 Then murmuring asks, whither and why he s gone ? 
 
204 MY DREAMS. 
 
 Poor mourner, cease ; thy useless wailings hush ; 
 
 And if thou canst ; if feeble reason yet 
 
 A glimmering ray can lend, look round and learn 
 
 That thine is but the fate of all who tread 
 
 This world of wo. Thine s but a varied shade 
 
 Of human misery, that all on earth must share. 
 
 " Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must 
 
 mourn." 
 
 The sting^Death (which at our birth received) 
 Poisons and irritates our struggling life, 
 Until at last, the venom does its part, 
 And we, too weak to struggle longer, die. 
 Here, bent beneath affliction s iron hand, 
 The widowed mother bows. See meagre Want, 
 And hungry Poverty, and all the woes 
 That sorrowing flesh can feel, their victim claim. 
 The mother sees, and shuddering at the train 
 Of threatened ills, her helpless infant clasps. 
 " Poor baby ! what hath life in store for thee ?" 
 She murmuring asks, "Ah ! what for thee, the world? 
 Thou see st not, know st not yet, the scowling train, 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 205 
 
 Who watch thee for their prey. See Poverty, 
 
 Who leads the band, while close behind her, look, 
 
 Lean Hunger pines. Then follows cruel Scorn, 
 
 Who smiling lifts her scorpion lash, and laughs 
 
 And points at Shame ; pale Shame, who shrinking shuns 
 
 The passing glance, and cowers at every look. 
 
 Then see cold Pity comes, her pittance drops, 
 
 And passes on, forgetting the kind word, 
 
 The look of sympathy, which eases wo, 
 
 And soothes the wounded heart ; the bread she gives 
 
 Is bitter, and the noble heart rejects it. 
 
 Close on her steps, heartless Neglect draws near, 
 
 And led by her, behold the fiend, Despair ; 
 
 Despair, who darkening e en this gloomy view, 
 
 Drives off the wretch s only comfort, Hope." 
 
 The mother stops in speechless agony, 
 
 And thick the tears fall on her thoughtless babe, 
 
 Who smiles unconscious of its parent s wo. 
 
 Smile on, poor babe ! smile on, while yet thou may st, 
 Too soon alas ! thou too, must learn to know, 
 That life s a bitter cup. We taste, and taste, 
 18 
 
206 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 And try to think it sweet ; and then, although 
 We loathe the sickening draught, again we taste, 
 And still as muddier grow the dregs, taste on, 
 And fancy coming sweets, we never find. 
 
 The happiest life, what is it but a dream ? 
 A ceaseless search for pleasures never found ; 
 Bright fairy shapes, which glitter and attract 
 As we approach them, vanish into air, 
 And leave us gazing round in stupid vacancy, 
 Until another dazzling shadow comes 
 Across our path, and we resume the chase. 
 Tis not until the chilling hand of death 
 Is laid upon the sleeper that he wakes. 
 At that cold touch, we start and look around 
 On all for which we ve toil d. Alas ! how changed ! 
 
 Our hoarded gold, shines now but glittering dust ; 
 
 Ambition s wreaths are withered in our grasp ; 
 
 The fairy wand of pleasure, broken lies ; 
 
 All which we saw, in Hope s bright, flattering glass, 
 
 Is now reflected back, by dull reality ; 
 
 We see its nothingness, and turn away, 
 
 Sighing to think, how long we ve been deceived. 
 
THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 207 
 
 But may I not, here by the charnePd dead, 
 Learn yet in life, one lesson which regret 
 Need never follow 1 There is a wisdom 
 Sleeps among these graves. Woes stalk around us, 
 Spectre-like they rise, but there s an angel form 
 Which follows them, though tearful, lovely too. 
 Tis by the grave, tis in the house of wo 
 We find her lingering. Man to man she binds 
 In the strong brotherhood of sorrow. Never 
 Mid st joy and laughter, doth man know his heart. 
 It wakes to consciousness but in that grief 
 Which tells him, men are brothers. Man learnt then 
 To worship the great majesty of man. 
 Tis sorrow raises thee above the brute ; 
 Tis sorrow wakes the heart, the mind, the soul, 
 And rouses up the Deity within thee ; 
 Tis sorrow which inspires the poet s song, 
 Which breathes its life in fire-tongued eloquence, 
 And stamps its burning words upon the heart ; 
 Tis sorrow makes thee man. And onward still, 
 Tis Sorrow bids thee soar above the world, 
 Forget the petty cares of flesh, and live 
 
208 
 
 MY DREAMS. 
 
 In the great soul of being. God, I bow 
 To her, thine handmaiden. From soul to soul, 
 She leads me on to thee, thou first great soul, 
 Creation s all, Infinite Being GOD ! 
 
 
OH! WOULD THAT I COULD DREAM 
 ON STILL. 
 
 OH ! would that I could dream on still, 
 
 Of brighter things than these ! 
 But motley hues our dreams must fill 
 
 From life s reflected rays. 
 
 And life is but a Harlequin, 
 
 In various colours dressed, 
 Where virtue mingles in with sin, 
 
 Where joys with sorrows rest ; 
 
 Where tears and smiles divide the eye, 
 
 Nor fear or hope comes single ; 
 Where laughter s echoed by a sigh, 
 
 Where cares with pleasures mingle. 
 
 And now tis sad, and now tis bright, 
 
 Now sunshine, and now gloom, 
 
 18* 
 
210 MY DREAMS. 
 
 The smiles of day touch close on night, 
 The cradle on the tomb. 
 
 , fe 
 
 Then let us choose 
 
 The rainbow hues, 
 What though their colours fade 1 
 
 When frowns the past, 
 
 To Lethe cast 
 Its every darker shade. 
 
 Sweet, sweet are the blossoms, their beauties let s seize, 
 Nor mourn that the morrow must see their decay ; 
 
 Bright, bright is the sun, let us bask in his rays, 
 Nor weep that his brightness is passing away. 
 
 The flow rets, tis true, will too soon cease to bloom, 
 But why not enjoy all their sweets ere they re past ? 
 
 The bright sun, alas ! will too soon sink to gloom, 
 But are his smiles less bright, so long as they last.) 
 
 / 
 
 Oh ! better, far better, to gather the flowers, 
 
 And while their sweets last, ty make them all our own. 
 
OH! WOULD THAT I COULD DREAM ON STILL. 211 
 
 Oh ! better, far better, in sunshiny hours, 
 To bask in the rays of the comforting sun. 
 
 What tho soon, too soon, must be withered the flowers, 
 What tho the bright sun doth already decline, 
 
 Oh ! still while they last, let us yet make them ours, 
 And when they are gone, twill be time to repine. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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