Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Was it a dream,—I saw the lances glance,
And gaily leapt on polished helms the sun,
Was it a dream,—I saw the festal dance,
For happily the Tournament begun,
Was it a dream,—or in that softest eye,
Anna de Rose, whose name is chivalry.

Was it a dream,—I saw the ancient hall,
The warder old, and watch-dog at his feet,
Was it a dream,—I heard the Baron call,
The draw-bridge fall, the horseman in his seat,
Was it a dream,—or was thy sunny mouth,
Anna de Rose, this picture of the south.

Was it a dream,—I saw the castle fire
That lighted up the oaken Hall so wide,
Was it a dream,—when drank the wine the Sire,
And with his earnest gaze the Baron eyed,
Was it a dream,—or was that pleasing thought
Anna de Rose, thy figure richly wrought.

These dreams were Anna what thou wert to me,
A token of the Thought which in my youth
About the busy world hung Courtesy,
And colored every day with golden truth,
Then, Knights and Ladies danced along the plain,
Fair days had come, the world felt young again.

I have had dreams which were Realities,
I thought to dream no more, but thou didst come,
And I have dreamed in sooth of those sweet eyes,
That smiling mouth, and Beauty's priceless sum,
I waked yet thou wert bright, and so despair
Shall something softer, some mild aspect wear.

I have had visions which have turned to pain,
I mourn some altered friends, some misty days,
Thou bringest to me many hours again
When Sunlight fell, and oft the Star's clear rays,
Bright hours were those, I am in debt to thee,
Anna de Rose, and would thou wert to me.

No more, I said, shall any Beauty go
Before my eyes, to warm me with its fire,
No more the fairy Rivers softly flow
That bear upon them, what I may desire,
Some little beauty in the world I seek,
In vain, the place is empty, wind is bleak.

But ever as I lose my hold on Earth,
She clasps me closer with a new-found treasure,
And when I sigh she beckons infant Mirth,
And when I weep she summons gentle Pleasure,
Thus by the course of history I know,
That still in Spring the violets shall blow.

Before thee lies the world, an aimless prize,
Thou shall float onward, see the Distant near,
O youth, why forward turn thy seeking eyes,
Why not upon the Future look with fear,
Yet not in utter fear, but with some dread,
It must not be, with visions thou art fed.

And were it in my power, my Dream should be,
That Castle old, with its ancestral fire,
That Baron and the warder, bold to see,
And thou the Lady, while I touched the lyre,
What matter if those forms we see no more,
From Fancy's urn the brilliant waters pour.

Thou listenest for thy Lord as eve draws nigh,
Afar the courser fiery-footed springs,
Then nearer draws the sound, thy gladdened eye
Beams ere the Figure in the mailed rings
Passes the castle-gate,—then falls the sun,
Night is without, with thee Day has begun.