Actor“Merciful heavens! is that true?”Ben Hassan’s Dream.I stood alone beside a mighty sea;The waves in awful majesty swept inAnd crashed upon the strand. Far out beyondThe snowy-crested line of breakers rodeA ship; and as she rose and fell her tallMasts seemed to trace a message on the sky:“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,Be merciful, that they who watch on board,And they that wait at home, may once more claspThe hands and press the lips of those they love.”The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sandsStretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:The fierce sun overhead poured down a streamOf heat intolerable. Silence reigned.The caravan had gone. I leaned low downTo hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?Another scene: The sun had set, and peacePervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfumeOf flowers filled the evening air. The soundOf tinkling bells came faintly from a plainWhere camels browsed. The slender minarets,And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;Their banner bore the crescent and the star.I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”And then, it seemed, I was within a grotThat opened on a placid lake. The moonWas at the full and o’er the water threwA track of silver sheen. Beside me stoodA child with upturned face. I placed my handUpon its head, when, lo! from out the lakeArose a horrid, monster form. It glaredWith baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turnedTo fly—when suddenly the vision changed:Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,A happy, careless child. The olden scenesWere fresh again, and things forgot had lifeAnd form. O home!—how blest are they that haveA home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyesWere beaming love, as angel-like she smiledAnd kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Actor“Merciful heavens! is that true?”
Actor“Merciful heavens! is that true?”
“Merciful heavens! is that true?”
Ben Hassan’s Dream.I stood alone beside a mighty sea;The waves in awful majesty swept inAnd crashed upon the strand. Far out beyondThe snowy-crested line of breakers rodeA ship; and as she rose and fell her tallMasts seemed to trace a message on the sky:“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,Be merciful, that they who watch on board,And they that wait at home, may once more claspThe hands and press the lips of those they love.”The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sandsStretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:The fierce sun overhead poured down a streamOf heat intolerable. Silence reigned.The caravan had gone. I leaned low downTo hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?Another scene: The sun had set, and peacePervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfumeOf flowers filled the evening air. The soundOf tinkling bells came faintly from a plainWhere camels browsed. The slender minarets,And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;Their banner bore the crescent and the star.I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”And then, it seemed, I was within a grotThat opened on a placid lake. The moonWas at the full and o’er the water threwA track of silver sheen. Beside me stoodA child with upturned face. I placed my handUpon its head, when, lo! from out the lakeArose a horrid, monster form. It glaredWith baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turnedTo fly—when suddenly the vision changed:Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,A happy, careless child. The olden scenesWere fresh again, and things forgot had lifeAnd form. O home!—how blest are they that haveA home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyesWere beaming love, as angel-like she smiledAnd kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.—Geo.M. Vickers.
I stood alone beside a mighty sea;The waves in awful majesty swept inAnd crashed upon the strand. Far out beyondThe snowy-crested line of breakers rodeA ship; and as she rose and fell her tallMasts seemed to trace a message on the sky:“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,Be merciful, that they who watch on board,And they that wait at home, may once more claspThe hands and press the lips of those they love.”The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sandsStretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:The fierce sun overhead poured down a streamOf heat intolerable. Silence reigned.The caravan had gone. I leaned low downTo hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?Another scene: The sun had set, and peacePervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfumeOf flowers filled the evening air. The soundOf tinkling bells came faintly from a plainWhere camels browsed. The slender minarets,And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;Their banner bore the crescent and the star.I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”And then, it seemed, I was within a grotThat opened on a placid lake. The moonWas at the full and o’er the water threwA track of silver sheen. Beside me stoodA child with upturned face. I placed my handUpon its head, when, lo! from out the lakeArose a horrid, monster form. It glaredWith baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turnedTo fly—when suddenly the vision changed:Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,A happy, careless child. The olden scenesWere fresh again, and things forgot had lifeAnd form. O home!—how blest are they that haveA home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyesWere beaming love, as angel-like she smiledAnd kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.—Geo.M. Vickers.
I stood alone beside a mighty sea;The waves in awful majesty swept inAnd crashed upon the strand. Far out beyondThe snowy-crested line of breakers rodeA ship; and as she rose and fell her tallMasts seemed to trace a message on the sky:“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,Be merciful, that they who watch on board,And they that wait at home, may once more claspThe hands and press the lips of those they love.”The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sandsStretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:The fierce sun overhead poured down a streamOf heat intolerable. Silence reigned.The caravan had gone. I leaned low downTo hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?Another scene: The sun had set, and peacePervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfumeOf flowers filled the evening air. The soundOf tinkling bells came faintly from a plainWhere camels browsed. The slender minarets,And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;Their banner bore the crescent and the star.I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”And then, it seemed, I was within a grotThat opened on a placid lake. The moonWas at the full and o’er the water threwA track of silver sheen. Beside me stoodA child with upturned face. I placed my handUpon its head, when, lo! from out the lakeArose a horrid, monster form. It glaredWith baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turnedTo fly—when suddenly the vision changed:Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,A happy, careless child. The olden scenesWere fresh again, and things forgot had lifeAnd form. O home!—how blest are they that haveA home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyesWere beaming love, as angel-like she smiledAnd kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.—Geo.M. Vickers.
I stood alone beside a mighty sea;
The waves in awful majesty swept in
And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond
The snowy-crested line of breakers rode
A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall
Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky:
“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,
Be merciful, that they who watch on board,
And they that wait at home, may once more clasp
The hands and press the lips of those they love.”
The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sandsStretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:The fierce sun overhead poured down a streamOf heat intolerable. Silence reigned.The caravan had gone. I leaned low downTo hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?
The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.
’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands
Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;
Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,
Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:
The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream
Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned.
The caravan had gone. I leaned low down
To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!
Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?
Another scene: The sun had set, and peacePervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfumeOf flowers filled the evening air. The soundOf tinkling bells came faintly from a plainWhere camels browsed. The slender minarets,And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;Their banner bore the crescent and the star.I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”
Another scene: The sun had set, and peace
Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume
Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound
Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain
Where camels browsed. The slender minarets,
And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,
That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.
A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;
Their banner bore the crescent and the star.
I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”
And then, it seemed, I was within a grotThat opened on a placid lake. The moonWas at the full and o’er the water threwA track of silver sheen. Beside me stoodA child with upturned face. I placed my handUpon its head, when, lo! from out the lakeArose a horrid, monster form. It glaredWith baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turnedTo fly—when suddenly the vision changed:
And then, it seemed, I was within a grot
That opened on a placid lake. The moon
Was at the full and o’er the water threw
A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood
A child with upturned face. I placed my hand
Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake
Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared
With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!
Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned
To fly—when suddenly the vision changed:
Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,A happy, careless child. The olden scenesWere fresh again, and things forgot had lifeAnd form. O home!—how blest are they that haveA home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyesWere beaming love, as angel-like she smiledAnd kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,
A happy, careless child. The olden scenes
Were fresh again, and things forgot had life
And form. O home!—how blest are they that have
A home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!
“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”
It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes
Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled
And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,
I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.
—Geo.M. Vickers.