BY MISS C. E. GOOCH, _Of Washington City_. Come gaze upon the moon, my love, Upturn thy bonny brow, And I’ll tell thee a dream I had Beneath her light just now. I did not mean to slumber, love, But gazed into the skies, Till gentle sleep came softly down, And clos’d my weary eyes. I dream’d that I was lying there, As I before had lain, Upgazing on the lady moon, And winking stars again. Methought, a snowy-feathery cloud That hover’d round the moon, Came sailing down toward the earth, And chang’d its semblance soon. It was a pinnace—beautiful, Of silver made and pearl, And there was seated at the helm A most entrancing girl. About her lurk’d some witching spell The sternest heart could bow, {770} Nay—look not sad, my own dear girl, That ladye fair—was thou! “Come dearest,” softly didst thou cry, And seated by thy side, We sprang up in the buoyant boat Cleaving the airy tide. Far swifter than the lightning’s flash— Far swifter than the wind, Yea—swifter than the viewless thought We left the world behind! And smilingly thy dark blue eyes Were ever fixed on mine, I felt a thrilling through my veins, An ecstacy divine! Upward and upward, onward still, Until we reach’d the bound Of that encircling atmosphere That girdles earth around. A sudden pause—a giddy whirl, Lo! we had pass’d the bound, And quickly as a beam of light, Sank down on _lunar_ ground! We two have stray’d through many vales, Thou well might’st lovely call, But that fair valley of the moon Was loveliest of them all! Soft rippling o’er a silver lake The wind sang through the trees, And every thing was gather’d round, Each dainty sense to please. Young odorous flowers, of rainbow dye, Sprang up beneath our feet; And fruit, that seem’d to tempt our taste, Was more than earthly sweet. I thought in that lone valley, Were none but thou and I, And we were destined there to live, To _live_—and _love_—and _die_. A destiny so calmly blest, So free from earthly pain, Say, can you wonder that I griev’d To wake on earth again? Yes! thou art _mine_, my beautiful, And we are happy now; But sorrow will come to the heart, And sadness to the brow. Sickness will come, with pallid hand, And poverty may press; Yes, earth with all its earthly cares, Will mar our happiness. Yet do not sigh, my own lov’d bride, I shall be with thee still; And will we not, by sharing, half Annihilate each ill? ESSAYS OF GILCHRIST.[1] [Footnote 1: See last Messenger.] II. Permitte Divis cœtera * * * * * * * Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quœrere.—_Horat._