University of Virginia Library

POEMS AND SONGS OF CAROLINE OLIPHANT THE YOUNGER.

LINES ON DREAMS.

Oh! Dreams are mysteries! The free-born mind
Owns not the fetters which the body wears,
By sleep imposed. But starting from the haunts
Of men, revels in scenes no foot hath trod,
Or visits those the foot may tread no more:
Dreams bring the shadow back on Time's hard dial:
Shake the full hour-glass, and the golden sands
Run once again their sparkling course. It seems
As Reason's handmaids—while their mistress slept—
Had each assumed a character, and dressed
In masquer's habit—by the flickering glare
Of midnight torches held strange revelry.
Fancy, attir'd in Memory's weeds, laments
And hangs in sorrow o'er the funeral urn
Of one who ne'er deceased; or, with a word,
Enchantress-like, calls from the lonely grave
Some that in silence long have dwelt; takes off
The vestments of the tomb, and gives them back
Their mortal garb, so dear to those who mourn!
Around them throws, the very spell that once
Had power to fix and captivate! Then fades
This bright illusion of the mind—a flash
Of lightning, fleet as vivid!—leaving us
Scathed with the brightness that around us played.
Hope, by the glare of glimmering torches rous'd,
Starts from her airy couch to join the dance
Of festive nymphs—a mazy 'wildering dance—
Her step still fleetest, still her voice most dear.
Then bounding o'er the turf, she hastens down
To where her skiff lies moor'd within the bay,
Loosens the anchor, spreads before the wind
The fluttering sail, and o'er a moonlight sea
Steers her light bark, where on the boundary line,
The girdle of the ocean, vapours sleep,
Outstretched like harbours, luring her to rest.
Fear, too, steals forth, like one to trial led
Of fiery ordeal, shunning burning shores,—
Now by her shadow frightened, or the roar
Of distant bull, that near and nearer comes,
With flaming eye, and horns that pointed seem
To lift the victim high in air; and then—
At once the vision changes, like the skies
Seen in far Northern climes; while the fix'd eye
Gazes on rolling waves of light; in vain
It strives to give stability! Away
The meteor darts; its spiral columns shift,
And on the far horizon bear aloft
A momentary canopy of flame.
Now Pleasure's bird, on wings of varied hue,
Catches the sun's last rays, and radiant glows,
With liquid amethyst and molten gold!
Sudden, the sun has set, the pall is thrown
O'er his departed lustre, and the owl,
Of mournful presage, chaunts his requiem.
Coherence incoherent!—Arabesque,
Of mental imagery, the serpent's folds
To human body joining on fantastic.
Here swift Apollo follows in the chase,
And grasps a laurel branch, his only meed;
Or from a grove of shady myrtles, peeps
A dancing satyr, spreading terror round;
Yet would our sleeping hours alone receive
Monstrous impossibilities!
If from their slumbers waken'd, none pursued
Dreams more absurd and fatal to the soul,
Shall Reason then encourage, by her voice,
The follies of her vassals? Lay aside
Her sceptre on a mole-hill, sit enthron'd
And wear the garlands of a Queen of May?
Oh! there are projects of the waking mind—
Fears and anticipations—that would shame
The visions of the night, so wild, so vain!
Who shall awake these sleepers? When the surge
Beats on the tossing vessel, and the winds
Make it their sport, say, Will there then be time
To rise and call upon their God? Or, lull'd
By Mercy's soft entreaty, must they sleep
And take their rest, till the last earthquake's shock,
And rolling thunder echoing round, announce
The door of hope for ever closed?
Without, remain in darkness and despair,
The dreamer, waken'd from his trance, convinced
The Atheist; but too late!—the last long blast
His unannihilated soul demands;
And as its mighty voice still louder grows,
Hurls into fragments a dismember'd world.

ON READING LORD BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD.

Naturalist of mind! Thy bark sailed far,
A voyage of discovery o'er the waste
Of Life's wide sea; and not to be deceived
By its bright surface, and its dancing waves
Smiling in sunshine, thou didst dive beneath
Searching its hidden caves, and see
Innumerable creeping things, that dwelt
From others' sight concealed, and with the line
Which Reason gave thee, didst attempt to sound
Immeasurable depths, examine all
The rocky grottos where the Genii sleep,
And gathering thence a tuneful shell, did'st pour
A melancholy blast, that strangely jarr'd
With the light music of the Gondolier.
In fancied safety, sailing o'er the flood,
Many have chanted ocean's loveliness,
Drawn fairy castles on her waves, whose swell
Prolonged the colonnade of wreathed shafts,
And tinged them with a deeper hue. Fair spell!
How many a wand'rer hath been lured by it,
Watching the changes wrought, and hath forgot
Morgana's sumptuous hall was not his home.
Not such thy flatt'ring picture;—thou didst fling
The slime upon the surface, troubling all
The sea-nymph's palace; but thou didst not show
Where the lone voyager might rest in peace
The stormy hours of night. Thou brought'st some spoils
From ocean's tesselated pavement—wrecks
Of human happiness, Affection's freight,
Her gold and ivory from the barren rocks,
With spicy treasures which no price could pay;
And with them specimens of coral broke
From the hard reefs, on which thy bark had struck.
Some child of waters, some fair lotus-wreath
Thy hand hath gather'd as it floated by;
And passing melody of mermaid's song
Thine ear hath caught; but from the foam arising
Thy tale was of the whirlpool and the brine,
The bitterness of waters that had whelm'd thy soul.
Poor mariner! thou didst o'erlook the chief
Of all the wonders of the deep. Hadst thou
In that vast search, ransacking all her caverns,—
Hadst thou but seen the Pearl of price that shone
Pure, midst those turbid waters, thou hadst sung
A joyous strain, and with a worthier freight
Than seaweed torn from sunken rocks, hadst steer'd
In safety for “The Islands of the Blest.”
Not as thy records tell: they only prove
Ocean for thee had gulfs, but held no Gem.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

THE GARDEN AT GASK.

HOME IN HEAVEN.

ON RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS.

OH, NEVER! NO, NEVER!