'And ask ye why these sad tears stream?'

`Te somnia nostra reducunt.?
OVID.

And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
 Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream?a lovely dream,
 Of her that in the grave is sleeping.

I saw her as ?twas yesterday,
 The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play?d a golden ray,
 And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.

With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
 A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath?d with lambent fire
 And amaranth was woven round it.

I saw her mid the realms of light,
 In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
 Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.

I strove to reach her, when, behold,
 Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
 Faded in air?a lovely vision!

And I awoke, but oh! to me
 That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
 Although so blest, and I so dreary.