It was in dreams that first I stole
With gentle mastery o'er her mind--
In that rich twilight of the soul,
When reason's beam, half hid behind
The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds
Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds--
'Twas then by that soft light I brought
Vague, glimmering visions to her view,--
Catches of radiance lost when caught,
Bright labyrinths that led to naught,
And vistas with no pathway thro';--
Dwellings of bliss that opening shone,
Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace--
All that, in short, could tempt Hope on,
But give her wing no resting-place;
Myself the while with brow as yet
Pure as the young moon's coronet,
Thro' every dream _still_ in her sight.
The enchanter of each mocking scene,
Who gave the hope, then brought the blight,
Who said, "Behold yon world of light,"
Then sudden dropt a veil between!
At length when I perceived each thought,
Waking or sleeping, fixt on naught
But these illusive scenes and me--
The phantom who thus came and went,
In half revealments, only meant
To madden curiosity--
When by such various arts I found
Her fancy to its utmost wound.
One night--'twas in a holy spot
Which she for prayer had chosen--a grot
Of purest marble built below
Her garden beds, thro' which a glow
From lamps invisible then stole,
Brightly pervading all the place--
Like that mysterious light the soul,
Itself unseen, sheds thro' the face.
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