 | Poems |  |
69
DREAMS.
“Dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and torture, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And seem like heralds of eternity.
------ They have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we are not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows.”
Byron.
And tears, and torture, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And seem like heralds of eternity.
------ They have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we are not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows.”
Byron.
Whence are ye, mystic phantoms
Of the silent midnight hour,
That weave around the sleeping earth
Your spells of spirit power!
Whence is your boundless sovereignty,
Your visionary birth,
That chequer thus our hours of rest
With scenes of joy and mirth?
Of the silent midnight hour,
That weave around the sleeping earth
Your spells of spirit power!
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Your visionary birth,
That chequer thus our hours of rest
With scenes of joy and mirth?
“We are the viewless ministers
Of the unslumbering mind—
The murderer fears us on his couch
Of troubled rest reclined.
Our gloomy forms float threatening by
Before his aching sight,—
He wakes—and fears to sleep again—
His spirit owns our might!
Of the unslumbering mind—
The murderer fears us on his couch
Of troubled rest reclined.
Our gloomy forms float threatening by
Before his aching sight,—
He wakes—and fears to sleep again—
His spirit owns our might!
“We mock ambition's votary
With dreams of pomp and pride;
We place the prize within his reach,
His waking fate denied;—
The sceptre glitters in his grasp,
His eye with joy is bright—
He wakes—it is an empty dream—
His spirit owns our might!
With dreams of pomp and pride;
We place the prize within his reach,
His waking fate denied;—
The sceptre glitters in his grasp,
His eye with joy is bright—
71
His spirit owns our might!
“We bear the slumbering maiden
From her happy village home,
To gay and gorgeous scenes, o'er which
She long hath sigh'd to roam;
And nobles bow to do her will
In halls of dazzling light—
She wakes—it is an empty dream—
Her spirit owns our might!
From her happy village home,
To gay and gorgeous scenes, o'er which
She long hath sigh'd to roam;
And nobles bow to do her will
In halls of dazzling light—
She wakes—it is an empty dream—
Her spirit owns our might!
“We weave our mystic spells of power
Around the frighten'd child,
We bear him from his mother's side
To caverns dark and wild;
The owlet hoots, the bat flies past—
He screams in sore affright,—
He wakes—there's terror in his glance—
His spirit owns our might!
Around the frighten'd child,
We bear him from his mother's side
To caverns dark and wild;
The owlet hoots, the bat flies past—
He screams in sore affright,—
He wakes—there's terror in his glance—
His spirit owns our might!
72
“The poet journeys far away
Beneath our shadowy wings,
To where the Persian love-rose blooms,
To where the bulbul sings;
Or wakes the echoes with his lyre,
When midnight stars look down,
Or sits beside the rushing streams
On plains of old renown.
Beneath our shadowy wings,
To where the Persian love-rose blooms,
To where the bulbul sings;
Or wakes the echoes with his lyre,
When midnight stars look down,
Or sits beside the rushing streams
On plains of old renown.
“We bear him to the mouldering tombs
Where rest the holy dead;
To the ancient abbey's silent aisles
That startle at his tread.
He muses on those scenes, with all
A poet's rapt delight,—
He wakes—the glorious dream is past—
His spirit owns our might!
Where rest the holy dead;
To the ancient abbey's silent aisles
That startle at his tread.
He muses on those scenes, with all
A poet's rapt delight,—
He wakes—the glorious dream is past—
His spirit owns our might!
“Oh wondrous is our twofold power
Of sorrow and of mirth,
When we weave our mystic shadowy spells
Around the sleeping earth;—
Ye rule the gladsome world by day,
But 'tis we who rule by night;
Ye bow before our awful sway,
Your spirits own our might!”
Of sorrow and of mirth,
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Around the sleeping earth;—
Ye rule the gladsome world by day,
But 'tis we who rule by night;
Ye bow before our awful sway,
Your spirits own our might!”
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