A Dream · A Pæan · The Happiest Day

A Dream

In visions of the dark night
  I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
  Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
  To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
  Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,
  While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
  A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
  So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
  In Truth’s day-star?

A Pæan

How shall the burial rite be read?
  The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
  That ever died so young?

Her friends are gazing on her,
  And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!—oh! to dishonour
  Dead beauty with a tear!

They loved her for her wealth—
  And they hated her for her pride—
But she grew in feeble health,
  And they love her—that she died.

They tell me (while they speak
  Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
That my voice is growing weak—
  That I should not sing at all—

Or that my tone should be
  Tuned to such solemn song
So mournfully—so mournfully,
  That the dead may feel no wrong.

But she is gone above,
  With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
  Of the dead, who is my bride.—

Of the dead—dead who lies
  All perfumed there,
With the death upon her eyes,
  And the life upon her hair.

Thus on the coffin loud and long
  I strike—the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
  Shall be the accompaniment.

Thou diedst in thy life’s June—
  But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die too soon,
  Nor with too calm an air.

From more than friends on earth,
  Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
  Of more than thrones in heaven.—

Therefore, to thee this night
  I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
  With a Pæan of old days.

The Happiest Day

The happiest day—the happiest hour
  My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
  I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
  But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been—
  But let them pass.

And pride, what have I now with thee?
  Another brow may ev’n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me—
  Be still my spirit!

The happiest day—the happiest hour
  Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
  I feel have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
  Now offered with the pain
Ev’n then I felt—that brightest hour
  I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy
  And as it fluttered—fell
An essence—powerful to destroy
  A soul that knew it well.