DREAM-FANCIES.

Whence are ye that come to us In the stilly night? Wherefore do you torture thus, Phantoms of delight? Say, if ye are only fancies, Why your presence so entrances— So deceives our sight? Where, oh, where’s your stronghold, tell, In what fairy land? O’er what meads of Asphodel Sport your elfin band? Tell me truly, flitting fancies, Where you hold those fairy dances, On what sunny strand? When you, with your subtle spell, Hold our senses fast, Absent comrades with us dwell, Present seems the Past: Say, if ye are idle fancies, Why, when overpast the trance is, Its impressions last? Wherefore bring before us still Those from whom we sever? Mean you, that you tyrants will Grant oblivion never? Say, if ye are dreams and fancies, Why in dreams young Cupid’s lances Strike as deep as ever? Tell me who your power confers, Say from whom ye borrow All your magic—harbingers Ushering joy or sorrow; Why, if ye’re but fickle fancies, These dream-faces, these dream-glances Haunt us so to-morrow? Mortal mind may never know, Mortal wisdom cite Whence ye come or whither go, Spirits of the night: Yet your mystery enhances, And your witchery entrances More than pen may write. E. W. H.