Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed,
As sorrow sings a heart to sleep;
As a mother sings one child to rest,
And for the dead one still will weep.
I walked adown the singing stream,
The lilies slept on either side;
My heart — it could not help but dream
At eve, and after eventide.
Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach
With more than earthly fancies fraught,
That not the strongest wings of speech
Could ever touch their lowest thought.
Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far —
Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue —
That swept around, as sweeps a star
The boundless orbit of the True.
Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint,
Where human passion played no part,
As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint,
Or hunt an archangelic heart.
Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense,
And rose too high to stoop to it,
And framed aloft like frankincense
In censers round the infinite.
Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight!
And, soaring, bore my heart away
Beyond the far star-bounds of night,
Unto the everlasting day.
How long I strolled beside the stream
I do not know, nor may I say;
But when the poet ceased to dream
The priest went on his knees to pray.
I felt as sure a seraph feels
When in some golden hour of grace
God smiles, and suddenly reveals
A new, strange glory in His face.
Ah! starlit valley! Lilies white!
The poet dreamed — ye slumbered deep!
But when the priest knelt down that night
And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep?