THE world of dreams is strange, and I, a dreamer,
A strange and dreamy story now relate;
Yet marvel not, though fitful as the streamer
That dances round the pole, the nimble gait
Of Faery Fancy seem;-what, though she prate
In numbers idle as the babbling brook,
There may be music in them to create
A spirit-charm, whose mystery may look
Like that sweet voice which sings in Echo's hollow nook.

What though the Muse's wildly-chiming numbers
May only seem faint echoes of a heart
Possessed by silent thousands, where Thought slumbers,
And wants but winged language to impart
Life to her hopes-nursed by the tuneful Art
To live for ages in the Land of Song-
Yet, lightning-like, perchance her glance may dart
A gleam of light amid the mute-souled throng,
To those whose feelings far transcend their feeble tongue.

What though her words, like love-looks launched by ladies,
May work sweet woe-she seeks to cure, not kill;
What though fantastic as the foam-crowned eddies
That reel and dance adown the dashing rill
On some green mountain's breast-fair Fancy will
Yield homage to the throne of Intellect,
He that hath ears to hear may listen till
In numbers strange, perchance, he may detect
The language of the gods, however imperfect.

A Thought-a Sound-a Tear-a Dream-a Vision
Is deified when Fancy deigns to speak;
A wandering Thought, bound on a heavenly mission,
Knocked at the windows of my Soul at break
Of Reason's day, before one gloomy streak
Of worldly wisdom tinged with sombre hue
Life's cloudless welkin, where Truth's lofty peak
Rose like a crystal pyramid to view,
Amid the groves of Happiness where Hope and Virtue
grew-

For Hope and Virtue are the fairest flowers
That bloom in meadows of the infant mind,
Where Innocence sits in Love's hallowed bowers
With puerile Reason, whom the world deems blind;
And, with her alabaster cheek reclined
Upon his breast, despises Fear and Guile;
By Youth protected from the withering wind
Of prudent Forethought, and the snaky coil
Of Care, whose blue scales sparkling gleam through
Manhood's smile.

This messenger from Paradise did enter
The presence-chamber of my soul, to tell
Why forth she fared upon this wild adventure
Through regions where Queen Phantasy doth dwell-
That dim and dreamy land of Charm and Spell,
On all sides bounded by the mighty main
Of pure Imagination, where the swell
Of spirit-winds helps Fancy's bark to gain
The port of fabled Truth, which Fact pants for in vain.

She bade me search the abyss of my spirit,
Exclaiming, 'There fit symbols do abound
'For all the hopes and fears that men inherit;
'Sensations born of Feeling, Sight, or Sound
'Lie on the surface-from the Soul's profound
'Abysmal deeps still deeper truth up-gleams-
'Truth which, by Fiction robed and Fancy crowned,
'With Bards alone hath birth in fable-themes,
'For soul-truths ever travel in the Land of Dreams.'

With that she ceased. As when a falling star
Sinks in the hollow bosom of the Night,
Gleaming through gulfs of gloom-men mark afar
Its flaming passage by a line of light
Left in the wake, while it eludes their sight,
And Fancy follows it through worlds of wonder-
So fled that Angel, and the glory bright
Of her pure presence, lightning-like, asunder
Clove Mystery's cloud-realm, whence leapt Truth's living
thunder!

No poet's pen, though dipped in flame, what then
Was heard and seen may seek to fitly phrase;
A golden pier was thronged with souls of men-
The great, the wise and good of former days,
And bards crowned with God's glory, as with bays,
To burning beacons beckoned, scroll in hand,
To light the lonely mariner, who strays
O'er Life's rude billows, towards that lovely land
Where Genius sits enthroned o'er looking Time's dull strand.

Futurity forewent her wonted pride-
Unveiled her beauty-beaming face, which shone
On the gray Past, who claimed her for his bride,
Albeit his daughter-kissing her, anon
Their melting features mingled into one
Familiar face-the Present, who gan preach,
'Mortal! be bold! this is Fame's fort-press on!
'Shake hands with those Eternals, all and each,
'Then plant another beacon-light on Time's broad beach!'

Since then, within the Palace of my Soul
Hath dwelt a Thought which will not be expressed,
But, queen-like, o'er my heart usurps control,
And like a patient hen-bird on her nest,
Sits hatching Hopes in brilliant plumage dressed,
Whose blinding lustre blots the world from sight;
And 'Ah!' she singeth, 'wherefore wilt thou rest,
'Since Heaven through me commandeth thee to write,
'And leave the sons of Toil a legacy of light?'

I dare no longer disobey that voice
Which through my spirit thrilleth, as if God
Had uttered every accent, robbing Choice
Of crown and kingdom;-henceforth will I plod
With Poesy through tracts as yet untrod,
By soul-dream haunted groves of deathless bloom;
A garland I may gather on the road,
Or twine a wreath of laurels round my tomb,
Whose leaves, perchance, shall fade not till the day of
doom.

I'll set aside the sophistry of sages,
Led on by Faith to fight in Freedom's van;
I'll war with the philosophy of ages
When it wars with the spirit-growth of man;
Though bravery abridge life's brittle span,
I'll woo, and win, and wed the maiden Truth!
A world of wealth with me would weigh less than
The single thought that I had staked my youth
To snatch her lovely limbs from Time's corrosive tooth.

Though none may hope to 'rein the rearing world,'
Where millions worship at fell Mammon's shrine-
Where clouds of incense, round his altar curled,
And blazing pomp in bright refulgence shine,
Proclaiming him a deity divine
Throned in the Age's heart;-that Judas-creed
I will oppose, nor yet dejected pine,
Though Resolution's iron heart should bleed
To witness giant Effort bring forth dwarfish Deed.

I will put on Love's adamantine armour,
Baptize my infant Muse in martyrs' blood,
Nor dine with Pleasure, lest that dainty charmer
Mix sloth, like poison, with my spirit's food;
But stem the stream of Falsehood's fatal flood,
Though waves of Error work me worldly scath;
Cut Virtue's way through Vice's tangled wood,
While Hope, whose light my inspiration hath
Been, holds her angel-lamp to pioneer my path.

Thou, who hast never looked beyond the cold
Dull realm of Matter and Utility,
Mayst rail, if rail thou wilt, yet must be told,
Like flame in flint, Truth dwells in Mystery!
And dreams are fraught with a philosophy
Which, to the waking sense, is never shown
Except through symbols by sweet Poesy,
Who in the Land of Dreams hath built her throne,
Where she, like God in Heaven, reigns peerless and
alone!