THE MIDNIGHT DREAM.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

I had a vision, love, last eve, That thrills my very heart with fear; I could not wish to see thee grieve, Or wring from manhood's eye a tear: But in this dream, I saw thee weep As never man had wept before: I would not dream the like, if sleep My wearied eyes ne'er shadowed o'er! Methought I saw thee, bending low Above a pale and shrouded form; A wreath of cold December's snow Flung out upon the freezing storm Hath more of beauty, warmth, and life, Than this white piece of marbled earth! 'How,' thought I, 'have the war and strife Of passion in its heart had birth?' I saw thee raise the snowy shroud That veiled the features from my view; I heard thee strangely weep aloud, Then slowly recognition grew Within my soul; my body lay All still and wan before me there, Robed for the tomb, while slow decay Was painted on the forehead bare! I saw thee press the icy brow, Whilst I revolted at the scene; That lifeless clay I hated now, But longed against thy heart to lean. But woe unto that gentle heart! Had it but deemed my spirit near, I felt that agony would start The cold and deadly drops of fear. I thought if spirits thus were freed From dust which weighed their pinions down, Their destiny were bright indeed, If joy unmingled e'er was known. But I was chained unto thy side, While still this truth seemed strange to me, Though ever by thee I should glide, I was invisible to thee! I strove to lift the veil which hides The progress of immortal birth; The thin partition that divides The world of spirits from the earth; I longed to bear thy spirit up To flash around the golden throne, But then, stern Death's embittered cup Must first be drained by every one! Yet still I hovered by thy side; My wings thy very garments brushed, Whilst thou but knew I lived and died, All else within the tomb was hushed. With dreams of earth a sense was blent Of some neglect of duty there, And oh! I thought my punishment Was greater far than I could bear! How oft I heard thee breathe my name In tearful accents, sad and low, Then suddenly thy voice exclaim, 'A ministering angel thou!' Still swaying thus from sphere to sphere, My spirit knew nor peace nor rest, Till daylight broke that vision drear, And saw me weeping on thy breast! Cincinnati, 1813.