TO EVELYN.
Reading edition
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BY KATE DASHWOOD.
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“I had a dream, and ’twas not all a dream.”
Dear cousin mine, last eve I had a vision —
Nay, do not start!
There softly stole into the bright Elysian
Of my young heart —
A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealing
Amid the shadows of my soul’s revealing.
The sunset clouds were fading, and the light,
Rosy and dim,
Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright
“The Switzer’s Hymn”
Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song —
Waking my heart’s hushed chords, erst slumbering long.
Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on,
Like wild, sweet strain
Of spirit-music o’er the waters borne —
Bringing again
Fond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart,
Dim cloistered in my bosom’s shrine apart.
And then came visions of my own bright home —
The happy band
Far distant—who at eventide oft come,
Linked hand in hand —
When to my quickened fancy love hath lent
Each thrilling tone, and each fond lineament.
They come again—the young, the beautiful —
The maiden mild,
The matron meek—whose soft low prayer doth lull
Her sleeping child;
The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire!
Who guides his trembling steps—yon gray-haired sire.
And then came thronging all earth’s gentle spirits —
That minister
Like angels to our hearts—thus they inherit
From Heaven afar —
Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye,
Which scatters sunbeams on our darksome way.
My vision changed—those messengers of light,
To fays had turned,
Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when night
Her star-lamps burned;
They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion,
For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission.
And then they scattered far and wide, and sought
The thorny ways,
And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought —
The cunning fays! —
From all the brightest and the fairest flowers
They culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers.
And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns —
Because, perchance,
Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns,
Might rashly dance
Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted
Bright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted.
And some were roguish fays—right merry elves,
Who loved a jest,
And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,”
Within some rose’s breast,
And there employed their most unwearied powers
In throwing “incense on the winged hours.”
What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams
With glory bright,
Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams
Of rosy light;
But fadeth not that vision from my soul,
Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control.
And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit
That ministers
Like angels to our hearts! such shall inherit,
From Heaven afar,
That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays
E’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways.