CXXXII. A DREAM OF MY POEMS.
I
'Twas in the starry midnight,
The wind was whirling low,
And the tall pine-trees replying,
As it rocked them to and fro,
When half awake, half sleeping,
I thought that I was dead,
And floated to the gates of Heaven,
With angels at my head.
II
Angels; ah, well I knew them!
Pleasant and fair and kind;
Things of my own creation,
And children of my mind.
I looked upon their faces,
And on their sunny wings,
Their eyes as bright as Summer,
Their breath like balm of springs.
III
And some of them were smiling
Like innocence when glad;
And some were grave and pensive,
With tearful eyes and sad.
But all of them were lovely;
They were no more than seven;
And they floated me and wafted me,
And carried me to Heaven.
IV
“And are ye all?” I whispered,
Betwixt a smile and tear,
“Out of a thousand, only seven,
To make my light appear?
Out of a thousand, only seven,
To shine about my name,
And give me what I died for,
The heritage of fame?”
V
“Hush!” said a stately angel,
Responsive to my thought,
“We're all the future Time shall know
Of what your hand hath wrought;
Your gay green leaves, and flowers of song,
You've flung them forth broadcast;
But like the bloom of parted years,
They've gone into the past.
VI
“But we, though no one knows us,
Shall echo back your tones
As long as England's speech shall make
The circuit of the zones.
Think not your fate unhappy!
To live to future time,
In noble thoughts and noble words,
Is destiny sublime.”
VII
“Angels of grace and beauty!”
I rubbed mine eyes and sighed,
“A dream! a dream! a pleasant dream!
Of vanity and pride.
A sleeping thought! a waking doubt!
If only one remain,
To cheer and elevate my kind,
I have not lived in vain.”
