THE DREAM OF LOVE.
I dreamed last night, my lady-love,
A dear, delicious dream;
'Twas not in bower or blooming grove,
Nor by the sylvan stream.
'Twas in thy father's noble hall,
In dreams I saw thee, lady love!
Yet 'twas no gorgeous festival,
No flowers beneath—no lights above.
It was a sacred, simple scene,
Thy smiling sisters gathered round,
With kindly air, and gentle mien,
And spoke—a magic, home-born sound!
Then thou and I, sweet lady-love!
Roved out amid the garden green,
Whilst Day and Night together strove,
Along the soft, romantic scene.
And then I praised the charming view—
The lofty peaks and rosiate skies—
The vallies, in their vernal hue—
The sky's still brightening, crimson dyes.
And oh! I saw thy angel smile,
It smiled its lovelight all on me!
My heart was heaving high the while,
And still my eyes saw nought but thee.
I took thy trembling hand in mine,
Then clasped thee to my happy breast,
And then those honeylips of thine
My forehead with their kisses blest.
Last night I dreamed, sweet lady-love!
This dear, delicious dream;
Oh! could I waking pleasures prove
So sweet as those that seem.