THE DREAM. So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears. To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. Her face was fair, but was not that which made His bosom in its solitude; and then As in that hour-a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been-- The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, - A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls phrenzy; but the wise Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its fantasies, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. THE DREAM. In all which was serv'd up to him, until, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries. To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret. Be it so. My dream was past; it had no further change. Of these two creatures should be thus traced out To end in madness-both in misery. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The purple noon's transparent light. The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown: I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown. I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measur'd motion. How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;- Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death, like sleep, might steal on me. And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. |