Lover. A dream beguiled
My life from anguish. Leonore!
Canst thou unlock the mystic lore
Of sleep and its visions dim and bright?
I slumbered—in pain: the lingering blight
Still lay on my spirit. I dreamed a dream!
Like motes on the swell of a noonday beam,
A thousand vague forms passed me by,
Wheeling and circling hurriedly.
These passed, and methought a lady bright
Leant on my arm, and clasped my hand:
Her chiselled temples were high and white;
But her life did seem as a name in sand,
With the waters near:—For her eyes were wild,
And her long teeth glittered as she smiled,
And her cheek was sunken. I ne'er had seen
That lofty brow with its lily sheen,
In my waking hours, and ne'er till then
Had I heard what I yearned to hear again—
That lady's voice!—Sweet Leonore,
'Twas a gentle joy to linger o'er
That dying one so fair and meek.
While I gazed in love on her faded cheek,
She shuddered and—died! I sprang, aghast,
From my couch, and moaned.
The strange dream passed—
Passed from its seat on my troubled brain.
I awoke to the forms of earth again.
Time flew his soar, as Time aye flies;
And I basked in the light of earthly eyes,
Till, joyous of heart, and light of mood,
I fled from naught save solitude.
I laughed, and many a hoary head
Shook thoughtfully, and wise men said—
As stole vague fears of a stormy morrow—
"Naught knoweth yon gallant yet of sorrow."
In a crowded hall, on a festive night—
Aloof from the fears of dotard eld—
I spake in the ear of a Lady bright,
Whom—awake—I had ne'er, till then, beheld.
Thine was that ear: and much it moved
The chords of my spirit, best beloved,
To gaze on the peerless Leonore.
Thou—thou wast the Lady of the dream;
And I unriddled the mystic lore
Which mortal men a madness deem,
And said, while my heart leapt joyously,
"The dream was the voice of destiny.
Kind Heaven hath sent this gentle one—
This being of beauty—of beauty to atone
For the viper's tooth: and she will be
Through sorrow and joy, mine faithfully,
Till the days of her life on earth are o'er"—
And I wooed and won thee, Leonore.
He ceased. The Lady turned her head,
Her soft cheek flushed with a ruby fever—
But she gazed in his face and meekly said,
"As I love thee now will I love thee ever."
Then passion came to the Lover's eye,
And as he bowed him, tenderly,
To kiss the brow of his Leonore,
These words spake he—"Bliss evermore!"
But constancy dwelleth not on earth,
And this world's joy is of little worth,
For we know that ere the birth of morrow,
The cup may be changed for one of sorrow.
This is a truth my heart hath learned,
From one who loved, and then falsely spurned:
This is a truth which all must know
Whose lots are cast in this world of wo.
A poet's thanks for thy courtesy,
Thou gentle one, whose step with me
Hath kindly been!
One fytte is done—
Yet sith thus far we twain have gone,
I'll "ply my wrest,"1 then tell thee more
Of the loves of the Lady Leonore.
L. L.
1 Wrest was the name of the key used in tuning his harp by the ancient Songleur or minstrel. "Ply my wrest" is an expression to be met with frequently in the early English poets.