192
At last my closing eye forgot to weep,
And o'er it past the viewless wand of sleep.
Dark visions came, all broken and distrest,
Uncalled, unsought, the enemies of rest;
Such as wild fever draws in fearful guise,
Before the restless mourner's half-clos'd eyes.
Strange forms were seen of more than mortal birth,
And hollow voices whisper'd from the earth;
Wild storms arose, contending billows dash'd,
And thro' the gloom, a sudden lustre flash'd;
When lo, a silver lamp, whose stately spire,
All bright and vivid, glow'd with heavenly fire,
Cast its pure light o'er streams, that murmur low,
Gleam'd on the mountains, cheer'd the vale of woe;
But as I gaz'd, the beam afar was borne,
The spire was quench'd, the silver lamp was gone.
Then sable waters rose with angry sweep,
A lonely vessel founders on the deep;
While thunders peal, and livid lightnings gleam,
And troubled spectres glar'd upon the dream.
Then rose a Gothic dome, with arch sublime,
Whose lofty towr's withstood the shocks of time,
Its spacious halls receiv'd the welcome guest,
Tho' sick, or weak, or famish'd or distrest;
