(_For the Mirror_.)
_Me_, oft hath Fancy, in her fitful dream,
Seated within a far sequestered dell,
What time upon the noiseless waters fell,
Mingled with length'ning leafy shade, a gleam
Of the departing sun's environ'd beam;
While all was hush'd, save that the lone death-bell
Would seem to beat, and pensive smite mine ear
Like spirit's wail, now distant far, now near:
Then the night-breeze would seem to chill my cheek,
And viewless beings flitting round, to _speak!_
And then, a throng of mournful thoughts would press
On this, my wild-ideal loneliness.
Me, oft hath Fancy too, in musing hour
Seated (what time the blithesome summer-day
Was burning 'neath the fierce meridian ray)
Within that self-same lonely woodland bow'r
So sultry and still; but _then_, the tower,
The hamlet tow'r, sent forth a roundelay;
I seem'd to hear, till feelings o'er me stole
Faintly and sweet, enwrapping all my soul,
Joy, grief, were strangely blended in the sound.
The light, warm sigh of summer, was around,
But ne'er may speech, _such_ thoughts, _such_ visions tell,
Then, perfect most, when _indescribable!_