WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.
Ah, bliss! I dreamed or thee last night!
Thee, whom my heart so deifies—
Again I met the thrilling light
Of thy serene and earnest eyes.
I dreamed of thee! Ah, gracious boon,
That gladdens thus my waking hours!
Above us bent Italia's noon,
Around us breathed the scent of flowers:
My hand lay gently clasped in thine.
No sound disturbed our joy's excess;
And soft thine eyes poured down on mine,
Their wildering rays of tenderness:
"My Leonora!" 'Twas thy same
Low voice that o'er my memory broke;
But even while thine accents came
I murmured "Tasso!" and awoke.
Ah, me! awoke! Yet all the day
Thy presence hath been round me still—
The airs that through my lattice play,
And toss the vines at their sweet will,
Repeat thy tones—and every where
I meet thine eyes still bent on me—
Ah, blessed dream! that gilds my care,
And brightens this reality.