‘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.