I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone, The gifted and the beautiful, from Time's sad wasting flown, Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even, Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven! Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring, Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud's raven wing. Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray, Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away! And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief 'Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth's unquiet grief; So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes, And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies! VI. I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old, Whose 'winged-words' of power had once like glorious music rolled; Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame, Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame; Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears, Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years. And I've read in hoary records solemn story of the dead, The mighty, the immortal, with their souls' vast treasures fled. The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire, Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre; And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above, In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love. VII. I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul, As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll, And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came, Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame; And a deep voice murmured: 'Destiny, that wrought thy web of life, Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife. And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may, Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!' Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood, Dim and shadowy and tearful, o'er my haunted solitude; And a wind-harp waileth lowly 'mid the swell of joyous song, Breathing from the lips of beauty o'er the listening festal throng. VIII.