THE DREAM.
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She took up her pencil, unconscious she drew
A heavy branch of the funeral yew;
She reach'd her lute and its song awoke,
But the string, as she touch'd it, wail'd and broke;
Then turn'd she the poet's gifted leaf,
But the tale was death, and the words were grief;
And still, with a power she might not quell,
The dream of the night o'er her hung like a spell.
Day pass'd, but her lord was still away;
Word came he was press'd to a festal array;—
'Twas a moment's thought,—around her was thrown
The muffling plaid, and she hasten'd alone
To the glen, where dwelt the awful maid
To whom the spirits of air had said
Unearthly words, and given a power
On the wind, and the stars, and the midnight hour.
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