SOME poet dreams come to the soul
In mystic beauty clad,
Unearthly in their loveliness,
So exquisitely sad.
Shadowy and dim and cloud-like things
Floating about on unseen wings,
They tremble on our sight;
As in our nightly visions come
Pale spirits from their starry home,
To vanish with the light,
And by the waking heart forgot,
E'en as a rose remembers not,
In sunshine rich and warm,
The moonbeams that through night's long hours
Came still and cold, in silver showers,
Upon her slumbering form.

My dreams, my dreams, — would they might come
To all like voices from their home!
Like cool, bland breezes at mid-day,
Wafting sweet breathings on their way,
That tell us where the violet springs, —
Like birds with sunshine on their wings,
Like the glad laugh of morning rills,
Like the first day-beams o'er the hills,
Like the first stars when twilight closes,
Like the first blush of summer roses, —
Like all things pure, and bright, and gay,
That lure awhile the soul away
From care, and grief, and feverish strife,
And make the heart in love with life!

Some lays there are seem only sent
To add to passion's blandishment,
Or wing the creeping hours
Of souls to lifeless ease resigned,
In dreamy languidness reclined
On pleasure's couch of flowers.
And some are like exotics rare,
Found blooming in the still, soft air
Of pride and luxury only;
And some like priceless, burning gems,
Set in imperial diadems,
In very brightness lonely;
And some in stately sluggishness,
Forsaken barks, float rudderless
Adown time's silent river;
And some are meteors on high,
One moment flashing o'er the sky,
Then lost in night for ever!

My lays, my lays, — would they might find
An echo in my country's heart,
Be in its home-affections shrined,
Form of its cherished things a part!
Be like wild flowers and common air,
Blooming for all, everywhere, —
Or like the glad song of the bird,
Gushing for all, felt more than heard!
Earnest, untiring, might they be
Like barks before a breeze at sea,
Whose dashing prows point home, —
Like good knights bound for Palestine,
Like artists, warmed by fire divine,
O'er icy Alp and Apennine,
Holding their way to Rome, —
Like arrows flashing through the fight,
Like eagles on their sunward flight, —
Like to all things in which we see
An errand and a destiny!

And would to Heaven that Freedom's voice,
Wild, bold, defying, strong,
Might sometimes, like a martial strain,
Peal through my fearless song!
The soft-toned lays of sycophants
May mine yet ring above,
Clear as a clarion, and yet
Their very soul be love!

O, not that Love who deems her sphere
Is not where falls the mortal tear,
Not by the mortal's hearth,
As ministering angel here,
Far from her place of birth;
With earnest, heavenward-gazing eye,
And spread wing fluttering for the sky,
All yearning to depart she seems,
And scarce permits, in her high dreams,
Her feet to touch the earth.
Away with such a love! Be mine
A love more glorious, more divine,
That boweth to the Infinite,
When his dimmed image meets the sight,
As 't were all glory and all light!
That loves the wide world as it lies,
With broken soil and clouded skies,
With changing scenes and varied lots,
And few flowers springing in the spots
Where angel feet have trod!
Let every theme with this be fraught,
Let every lay, let every thought,
Flash out this life of God