'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 fire
     And 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 me
     That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
     Although so blest, and I so dreary.