Leave circles of spun dew where'er they pass. Through the blue ether the freed Ariel flies; Enchantment holds the air; a swarming mass Of myriad dusky, gold-winged dreams arise, Throng toward the gates of sense, and so possess The soul, and lull it to forgetfulness. VII. Confused Dreams. O strange, dim other-world revealed to us, Beginning there where ends reality, Lying 'twixt life and death, and populous With souls from either sphere! now enter we Thy twisted paths. Barred is the silver gate, But the wild-carven doors of ivory Spring noiselessly apart: between them straight Flies forth a cloud of nameless shadowy things, With harpies, imps, and monsters, small and great, Blurring the thick air with darkening wings. All humors of the blood and brain take shape, And fright us with our own imaginings. A trouble weighs upon us: no escape From this unnatural region can there be. Fixed eyes stare on us, wide mouths grin and gape, Familiar faces out of reach we see. Fain would we scream, to shatter with a cry The tangled woof of hideous fantasy, When, lo! the air grows clear, a soft fair sky Shines over head: sharp pain dissolves in peace; Beneath the silver archway quietly We float away: all troublous visions cease. By a strange sense of joy we are possessed, Body and spirit soothed in perfect rest. VIII. The End of the Song. What dainty note of long-drawn melody Athwart our dreamless sleep rings sweet and clear, Till all the fumes of slumber are brushed by, And with awakened consciousness we hear The pipe of birds? Look forth! The sane, white day Blesses the hilltops, and the sun is near. All misty phantoms slowly roll away With the night's vapors toward the western sky. The Real enchants us, the fresh breath of hay Blows toward us; soft the meadow-grasses lie, Bearded with dew; the air is a caress; The sudden sun o'ertops the boundary Of eastern hills, the morning joyousness Thrills tingling through the frame; life's pulse beats strong; Night's fancies melt like dew. So ends the song! ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND TO LORD BYRON. The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green Above the spent heart, the Olympian head, The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen, Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled; Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower, His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour; Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew On the low, laureled brow misunderstood, That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued By the last foe who crowned while he o'erthrew.