'Tis midnight—but think not of slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around;
But ah, our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes;
Love only could breathe such a murmur,
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
And thou, thou pale dreamer, whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
O let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
O take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But for the glad, the gay, and the social,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
There, fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream!
L. E. L.
