 | Poems |  |
52
THE NEW PARIS.
A HOME FANCY.
How strange are, wife, the freaks of dreams!
How quaintly does the mocking night
Weave that which is with that which seems,
To cheat with shows our sleeping sight!
Last night, my last word breathed your name;
I slept; then, mingling false and true,
Swift to my eyes a vision came
In antique guise, and yet of you.
How quaintly does the mocking night
Weave that which is with that which seems,
To cheat with shows our sleeping sight!
Last night, my last word breathed your name;
I slept; then, mingling false and true,
Swift to my eyes a vision came
In antique guise, and yet of you.
Methought I breathed on Ida's side,
In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy
To whom Dione gave that bride,
The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy;
Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes
A glory swam with sudden awe;
Herè the great—Pallas the wise,
And her—the Queen of smiles—I saw.
In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy
To whom Dione gave that bride,
The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy;
Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes
A glory swam with sudden awe;
Herè the great—Pallas the wise,
And her—the Queen of smiles—I saw.
Hermes alone, beside was there;
A golden fruit the wing'd one bore:
“This, unto her who is most fair,
“Give thou!” he said; nor said he more.
Then heard I voices lure me straight,
Gifts fit for Gods in every voice;
Power—wisdom—beauty—seem'd to wait
Upon the breath that told my choice.
A golden fruit the wing'd one bore:
“This, unto her who is most fair,
“Give thou!” he said; nor said he more.
Then heard I voices lure me straight,
Gifts fit for Gods in every voice;
Power—wisdom—beauty—seem'd to wait
Upon the breath that told my choice.
O what had I with thrones to do?
Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize?
I ask'd but power to live for you,
But wisdom won from those dear eyes.
A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled
Met mine; Dione from me drew
The golden triumph as she smiled,
And, smiling, for it, proffered you.
Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize?
I ask'd but power to live for you,
But wisdom won from those dear eyes.
A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled
Met mine; Dione from me drew
The golden triumph as she smiled,
And, smiling, for it, proffered you.
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