The Dream of Love

I dreamed last night, my lady-love, A dear, delicious dream; 'Twas not in bower or blooming grove, Nor by the sylvan stream.

'Twas in thy father's noble hall, In dreams I saw thee, lady love! Yet 'twas no gorgeous festival, No flowers beneath—no lights above.

It was a sacred, simple scene, Thy smiling sisters gathered round, With kindly air, and gentle mien, And spoke—a magic, home-born sound!

Then thou and I, sweet lady-love! Roved out amid the garden green, Whilst Day and Night together strove, Along the soft, romantic scene.

And then I praised the charming view— The lofty peaks and rosiate skies— The vallies, in their vernal hue— The sky's still brightening, crimson dyes.

And oh! I saw thy angel smile, It smiled its lovelight all on me! My heart was heaving high the while, And still my eyes saw nought but thee.

I took thy trembling hand in mine, Then clasped thee to my happy breast, And then those honeylips of thine My forehead with their kisses blest.

Last night I dreamed, sweet lady-love! This dear, delicious dream; Oh! could I waking pleasures prove So sweet as those that seem.