HALLUCINATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

Last night, or did I dream? my lady led

Me to a wall I oft had passed before,

And opened there a curious secret door

Made by some cunning workmen ages dead.

We entered furtively, and as our tread

Resounded on the long untrodden floor,

Back swung the portal with a clanging roar.

Fleeing like startled children on we sped,

And found an inner chamber, where was spread

A board with gold and crystal, and a store

Of fruits and flowers from every unknown shore,

And curious flasks, whose contents gleaming red

A ruddy radiance o’er my lady shed,

And flung fantastic flames upon the floor.

II.

Bathed in the amber of an unseen flame,

A royal couch with silken curtains fair

Gleamed like a jewel in the alcove there;

A dreamy languor stole through all my frame,

Sweet beyond power of language to declare;

A breath of perfume moved the swooning air,

Stirring the golden ringlets of my dame;

And while we faltered, lo, a small voice came:

“O happy pair, with rosy forms aglow,

Here lie within the temple’s deep alcove

Sweet mysteries that I pant to have you know;

Wine that hath stained the trampling feet of Love,

And fruit that ripened in the sacred grove:

Break every seal, and let the purple flow.”

III.

I turned to seek my lady’s eyes, when lo!

The vision vanished, and I stood alone

Without the temple walls, whose cold gray stone

Mocked my endeavor, rising row on row.

I called my lady’s name, fearful and low.

No answer, save the hoot-owl’s jeering tone,

And the pale mocking moon that coldly shone.

Now, sadly round the temple walls I go,

Whose deepest mysteries I thought to know.

I thought its inmost chamber mine; fond fool,

I only stood within some vestibule,

Where all men’s feet may wander to and fro,

And saw, reflected from some mirror there,

My own imaginings too warm and fair.

IV.
IN THE GROVE.

Once more the huntress clad in silvery mail

Seeks her Endymion, over hill and glade;

Once more the hour so dear to youth and maid—

The hour that all Love’s guardian spirits hail.

Wrapped in the moonlight like a lucent veil,

Is it for me, young priestess, that, arrayed

Still in thy vestal robes, thy feet have strayed

So far from where the sacred fires pale?

Last night within the temple’s dim alcove

I durst not lift my conscious eyes to thine.

Lo, now thy lips and eyes have sought for mine,

And round my neck thy sheltering arms entwine,

While our commingling footsteps freely rove

Through all the mysteries of the silent grove.