THE DREAM.
59
I can see the flash of a clear dark eye,
And a stately hunter is passing by.
You will go to the tomb, but not alone,
For the doom of that hunter is as your own.
Hasten thee home, and kiss the cheek
Of thy young fair child, nor fear to break
The boy's sweet slumber of peace; for not
With his father's or thine is that orphan's lot.
As the sapling sprang up to a stately tree,
He will flourish; but not, thou fond mother, for thee.
Now away, for those who would blast thy sight
Are gathering fast on the clouds of night;
Away, while yet those small clear stars shine,
They'll grow pale at the meeting of me and mine."
Alas, for the weird of the wizard maid!
Alas, for the truth of the words which she said!
