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THE POET LOVERS.
That faint and shadowy phantom-band, Distant, and dim, and strange, Who link their hands in a mystic wreath And flit, and follow, and change—Those came to me in thy musing moods, When I sat as I'm sitting now, And marked the creeping of light and shade O'er the pride of thy kingly brow. Swell on! swell on! ye rippling waves, And rise, and fall, and die! Bend down thy gaze, eloquent one! While the bark of our love sweeps by. See! see—but my hand is still. Which over the harp-strings stole—The beautiful dream of our love and faith Is life to my thrilling soul. I dare not trust it to music's power — I should die if it left my breast—Flow back, soft river of melody! Flow back, ye visions blest!"
She ceased—and laid aside her silver lyre,And raised her lustrous eyes slowly and softly To her listener's face. Then, as they met His eloquent gaze of answering love. They deepened, darkened, drooped, until a fringeOf silken lashes met the tell-tale glow Of the fresh crimson in her delicate cheek. He bent, and laid his hand upon her head. Amid the masses of her rich, bright hair. And, with half hesitating tenderness. Pressed his proud lip upon her pure, young brow—And raised her from the cushions at his feet And placed her by his side, with her blight cheek Upon his bosom, and her flowing curls Covering his heart with a soft, shining cloud.
"Thy dreams are beautiful, my sweet Adel, And with exquisite grace this little hand
