And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’OVID.
And ask ye why these sad tears stream?Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?I had a dream–a lovely dream,Of her that in the grave is sleeping.
I saw her as ’twas yesterday,The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;And round her play’d a golden ray,And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.
With angel-hand she swept a lyre,A garland red with roses bound it;Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fireAnd amaranth was woven round it.
I saw her mid the realms of light,In everlasting radiance gleaming;Co-equal with the seraphs bright,Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.
I strove to reach her, when, behold,Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,Faded in air–a lovely vision!
And I awoke, but oh! to meThat waking hour was doubly weary;And yet I could not envy thee,Although so blest, and I so dreary.
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