A DAY DREAM
On a sunny brae alone I layOne
summer afternoon;
It was the marriage-time
of May,
With her young lover, June.
From her mother's heart seemed
loath to part
That queen of bridal charms,
But her father smiled on
the fairest child
He ever held in his arms.
The trees did wave their
plumy crests,
The glad birds carolled
clear;
And I, of all the wedding
guests,
Was only sullen there!
There was not one, but wished
to shun
My aspect void of cheer;
The very gray rocks, looking
on,
Asked, "What do you here?"
And I could utter no reply;
In sooth, I did not know
Why I had brought a clouded
eye
To greet the general glow.
So, resting on a heathy bank,
I took my heart to me;
And we together sadly sank
Into a reverie.
We thought, "When winter
comes again,
Where will these bright
things be?
All vanished, like a vision
vain,
An unreal mockery!
"The birds that now so blithely
sing,
Through deserts, frozen
dry,
Poor spectres of the perished
spring,
In famished troops will
fly.
"And why should we be glad
at all?
The leaf is hardly green,
Before a token of its fall
Is on the surface seen!"
Now, whether it were really
so,
I never could be sure;
But as in fit of peevish
woe,
I stretched me on the moor,
A thousand thousand gleaming
fires
Seemed kindling in the air;
A thousand thousand silvery
lyres
Resounded far and near:
Methought, the very breath
I breathed
Was full of sparks divine,
And all my heather-couch
was wreathed
By that celestial shine!
And, while the wide earth
echoing rung
To that strange minstrelsy
The little glittering spirits
sung,
Or seemed to sing, to me:
"O mortal! mortal! let them
die;
Let time and tears destroy,
That we may overflow the
sky
With universal joy!
"Let grief distract the sufferer's
breast,
And night obscure his way;
They hasten him to endless
rest,
And everlasting day.
"To thee the world is like
a tomb,
A desert's naked shore;
To us, in unimagined bloom,
It brightens more and more!
"And, could we lift the veil,
and give
One brief glimpse to thine
eye,
Thou wouldst rejoice for
those that live,
BECAUSE they live to die."
The music ceased; the noonday
dream,
Like dream of night, withdrew;
But Fancy, still, will sometimes
deem
Her fond creation true. |