The Dream.

A youth, with gentle brow and tender cheek,
Dreams in a place so silent, that no bird,
No rustle of the leaves his slumbers break;
Only soft tinkling from the stream is heard,
As its bright little waves flow forth to greet
The beauteous One, and play upon his feet.

On a low bank beneath the thick shade thrown,
Soft gleams over his brown hair are flitting,
His golden plumes, bending, all lovely shone;
It seemed an angel’s home where he was sitting;
Erect beside a silver lily grew;
And over all the shadow its sweet beauty threw.

Dreams he of life? O, then a noble maid
Toward him floats, with eyes of starry light,
In richest robes all radiantly arrayed
To be his ladye and his dear delight.
Ah no! the distance shows a winding stream;
No lovely ladye comes, no starry eyes do gleam.

Cold is the air, and cold the mountains blue;
The banks are brown, and men are lying there,
Meagre and old. But what have they to do
With joyous visions of a youth so fair?
He must not ever sleep as they are sleeping,
Onward through life he should be ever sweeping.

Let the pale glimmering distance pass away;
Why in the twilight art thou slumbering there?
Wake and come forth into triumphant day,
Thy life and deeds must all be great and fair;
Canst thou not from the lily learn true glory,
Pure, lofty, lowly?—such should be thy story.

But no! I see thou lov’st the deep-eyed Past,
And thy heart clings to sweet remembrances.
In dim cathedral-aisle thou ‘lt linger last
And fill thy mind with flitting fantasies.
Yet know, dear One, the world is rich to-day,
And the unceasing God gives glory forth alway.