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.