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Upon the flowers is hung the sparkling dew—
I look abroad—the passing and the past
Hours of existence I retrace anew,
And waft deep sighs across the barren waste.
Some gloomy fate o'ershades me—heaviness
Weighs down my heart, and sorrow flows in tears,
And fear outpours its vials of distress—
And yet I know no cause of guilt—or fears.
I have no concience-smitings; but I see
Where'er I turn, the selfsame piercing eye—
Once, only once I looked on steadily,
Then turn'd me from the shade that flitted by.
Come golden dream—come cradle in thy arms.
My overburden'd heart, and kindly keep
My soul from all these makings—these alarms;
Come golden dream—come tranquillizing sleep.
"O go not back, sweet maid! for many a night—
Yes! many a night these dreams shall visit thee!
Shapes round thy windows flit at morning light—
Give him thy sighs—and love thy prize shall be."