I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt--now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarté within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-- While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. 1845. * * * * * A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream: Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision or in none, Is it therefore the less _gone_? _All_ that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save _One_ from the pitiless wave? Is _all_ that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? 1849. * * * * * TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW). Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-- Of all to whom thine absence is the night-- The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all, For the resurrection of deep buried faith In truth, in virtue, in humanity-- Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!" At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes-- Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember The truest, the most fervently devoted, And think that these weak lines are written by him-- By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel's. 1847. * * * * * TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).