A Dream Of Antiquity.

I just had turned the classic page.         And traced that happy period over,     When blest alike were youth and age,     And love inspired the wisest sage,         And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.     Before I laid me down to sleep         Awhile I from the lattice gazed     Upon that still and moonlight deep,         With isles like floating gardens raised,     For Ariel there his sports to keep;     While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores     The lone night-fisher plied his oars.     I felt,--so strongly fancy's power     Came o'er me in that witching hour,--     As if the whole bright scenery there         Were lighted by a Grecian sky,     And I then breathed the blissful air         That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.     Thus, waking, dreamt I,--and when Sleep         Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;     Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,         Hath ever lovelier vision shone.     I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed     Through that serene, luxurious shade,     Where Epicurus taught the Loves         To polish virtue's native brightness,--     As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves         Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1]     'Twas one of those delicious nights         So common in the climes of Greece,     When day withdraws but half its lights,         And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.     And thou wert there, my own beloved,     And by thy side I fondly roved     Through many a temple's reverend gloom,     And many a bower's seductive bloom,     Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught.     And sages sighed and lovers thought;     Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern,         But all was formed to soothe or move,     To make the dullest love to learn,         To make the coldest learn to love.     And now the fairy pathway seemed         To lead us through enchanted ground,     Where all that bard has ever dreamed         Of love or luxury bloomed around.     Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene--     Along the alley's deepening green     Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,     And scented and illumed the bowers,     Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves,     Amid the lone Hercynian groves,     Appear those countless birds of light,     That sparkle in the leaves at night,     And from their wings diffuse a ray     Along the traveller's weary way.     'Twas light of that mysterious kind.         Through which the soul perchance may roam,     When it has left this world behind,         And gone to seek its heavenly home.     And, Nea, thou wert by my side,     Through all this heavenward path my guide.     But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged     That upward path, the vision changed;     And now, methought, we stole along         Through halls of more voluptuous glory     Than ever lived in Teian song,         Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]     And nymphs were there, whose very eyes     Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs;     Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed,     A mute appeal to passion breathed.     Some flew, with amber cups, around,         Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;     And, as they passed with youthful bound,         The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3]     While others, waving arms of snow         Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4]     And showing charms, as loth to show,         Through many a thin, Tarentian fold,     Glided among the festal throng     Bearing rich urns of flowers along     Where roses lay, in languor breathing,     And the young beegrape, round them wreathing,     Hung on their blushes warm and meek,     Like curls upon a rosy cheek.     Oh, Nea! why did morning break         The spell that thus divinely bound me?     Why did I wake? how could I wake         With thee my own and heaven around me!                  *             *             *             *             *     Well--peace to thy heart, though another's it be,     And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!     To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,     Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,     And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet     Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.     Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom     Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;     May spring to eternity hallow the shade,     Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.     And thou--when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam     Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,     Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,     And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,     I have led thee along, and have told by the way     What my heart all the night had been burning to say--     Oh! think of the past--give a sigh to those times,     And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.                  *             *             *             *             *     If I were yonder wave, my dear,         And thou the isle it clasps around,     I would not let a foot come near         My land of bliss, my fairy ground.     If I were yonder couch of gold,         And thou the pearl within it placed,     I would not let an eye behold         The sacred gem my arms embraced.     If I were yonder orange-tree,         And thou the blossom blooming there,     I would not yield a breath of thee         To scent the most imploring air.     Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,         Give not the wave that odorous sigh,     Nor let its burning mirror drink         The soft reflection of thine eye.     That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,         So pictured in the waters seem,     That I could gladly plunge to seek         Thy image in the glassy stream.     Blest fate! at once my chilly grave         And nuptial bed that stream might be;     I'll wed thee in its mimic wave.         And die upon the shade of thee.     Behold the leafy mangrove, bending         O'er the waters blue and bright,     Like Nea's silky lashes, lending         Shadow to her eyes of light.     Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn,         Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes:     In every star thy glances burn;         Thy blush on every floweret lies.     Nor find I in creation aught         Of bright or beautiful or rare,     Sweet to the sense of pure to thought,         But thou art found reflected there.