THE DREAM.It was the morning; through the shutters closed,Along the balcony, the earliest raysOf sunlight my dark room were entering;When, at the time that sleep upon our eyesIts softest and most grateful shadows casts,There stood beside me, looking in my face,The image dear of her, who taught me firstTo love, then left me to lament her loss.To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with suchA countenance as the unhappy wear.Her right hand near my head she sighing placed;“Dost thou still live,” she said to me, “and dostThou still remember what wewereand are?”And I replied: “Whence comest thou, and how,Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how IHave grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I thinkThou e’er couldst know it more; and oh, that thoughtMy sorrow rendered more disconsolate!But art thou now again to leave me?I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee?Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?”“Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleepEnvelops them,” she answered; “I am dead,And many months have passed, since last we met.”What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard!And she continued: “In the flower of youthCut off, when life is sweetest, and beforeThe heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt,The utter vanity of human hope!The sick man may e’en covet, as a boon,That which withdraws him from all suffering;But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate;And hard the fate of hope, that in the graveIs quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is,That Nature from the inexperienced hides!And a blind sorrow is to be preferredTo wisdom premature!”—“Hush, hush!” I cried,“Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushedWith these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed,O my beloved? and am I still alive?And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this,Thy tender body the last damps of deathShould feel, and my poor, wretched frame remainUnharmed? Oh, often, often as I thinkThat thou no longer livest, and that IShall never see thee on the earth again,Incredible it seems! Alas, alas!Whatisthis thing, that they call death? Oh, wouldThat I, this day, the mystery could solve,And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate’sRelentless hate! I still am young, and stillFeel all the blight and misery of age,Which I so dread; and distant far it seems;But, ah, how little different from age,The flower of my years!”—“We both were born,”She said, “to weep; unhappy were our lives,And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings.”“Oh if my eyes with tears,” I added, “then,My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for lossOf thee, and anguish weighing on my heart;Tell me, was any spark of pity or of loveFor the poor lover kindled in thy heart,While thou didst live? I, then, between my hopeAnd my despair, passed weary nights and days;And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed.Oh if but once compassion smote thee forMy darkened life, conceal it not from me,I pray thee; let the memory console me,Since of their future our young days were robbed!”And she: “Be comforted, unhappy one!I was not churlish of my pity whilstI lived, and am not now, myself so wretched!Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!”“By all our sufferings, and by the loveWhich preys upon me,” I exclaimed, “and byOur youth, and by the hope that faded fromOur lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!”And sweetly, sadly, she extended it.And while I covered it with kisses, whileWith sorrow and with rapture quivering,I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it,With fervent passion glowed my face and breast,My trembling voice refused its utterance,And all things swam before my sight; when she,Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied:“And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that IAm of my beauty utterly deprived?And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yieldTo passion’s transports. Now, a last farewell!Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too,Eternally are parted. Thou to meNo longer livest, nevermore shall live.Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn.”Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cryAloud, convulsed, my eyes o’erflowing withThe tears of utter, helpless misery,I started from my sleep. The image stillWas seen, and in the sun’s uncertain lightAbove my couch she seemed to linger still.
It was the morning; through the shutters closed,Along the balcony, the earliest raysOf sunlight my dark room were entering;When, at the time that sleep upon our eyesIts softest and most grateful shadows casts,There stood beside me, looking in my face,The image dear of her, who taught me firstTo love, then left me to lament her loss.To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with suchA countenance as the unhappy wear.Her right hand near my head she sighing placed;“Dost thou still live,” she said to me, “and dostThou still remember what wewereand are?”And I replied: “Whence comest thou, and how,Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how IHave grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I thinkThou e’er couldst know it more; and oh, that thoughtMy sorrow rendered more disconsolate!But art thou now again to leave me?I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee?Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?”“Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleepEnvelops them,” she answered; “I am dead,And many months have passed, since last we met.”What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard!And she continued: “In the flower of youthCut off, when life is sweetest, and beforeThe heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt,The utter vanity of human hope!The sick man may e’en covet, as a boon,That which withdraws him from all suffering;But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate;And hard the fate of hope, that in the graveIs quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is,That Nature from the inexperienced hides!And a blind sorrow is to be preferredTo wisdom premature!”—“Hush, hush!” I cried,“Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushedWith these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed,O my beloved? and am I still alive?And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this,Thy tender body the last damps of deathShould feel, and my poor, wretched frame remainUnharmed? Oh, often, often as I thinkThat thou no longer livest, and that IShall never see thee on the earth again,Incredible it seems! Alas, alas!Whatisthis thing, that they call death? Oh, wouldThat I, this day, the mystery could solve,And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate’sRelentless hate! I still am young, and stillFeel all the blight and misery of age,Which I so dread; and distant far it seems;But, ah, how little different from age,The flower of my years!”—“We both were born,”She said, “to weep; unhappy were our lives,And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings.”“Oh if my eyes with tears,” I added, “then,My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for lossOf thee, and anguish weighing on my heart;Tell me, was any spark of pity or of loveFor the poor lover kindled in thy heart,While thou didst live? I, then, between my hopeAnd my despair, passed weary nights and days;And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed.Oh if but once compassion smote thee forMy darkened life, conceal it not from me,I pray thee; let the memory console me,Since of their future our young days were robbed!”And she: “Be comforted, unhappy one!I was not churlish of my pity whilstI lived, and am not now, myself so wretched!Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!”“By all our sufferings, and by the loveWhich preys upon me,” I exclaimed, “and byOur youth, and by the hope that faded fromOur lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!”And sweetly, sadly, she extended it.And while I covered it with kisses, whileWith sorrow and with rapture quivering,I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it,With fervent passion glowed my face and breast,My trembling voice refused its utterance,And all things swam before my sight; when she,Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied:“And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that IAm of my beauty utterly deprived?And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yieldTo passion’s transports. Now, a last farewell!Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too,Eternally are parted. Thou to meNo longer livest, nevermore shall live.Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn.”Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cryAloud, convulsed, my eyes o’erflowing withThe tears of utter, helpless misery,I started from my sleep. The image stillWas seen, and in the sun’s uncertain lightAbove my couch she seemed to linger still.