434 HORACE S. MINOR. [1840-50. A NYMPH WAS DANCING ON A STREAM. A Nymph was dancing on a stream, And sporting with the sunset beam Right merrily : She loved the glances of the sun, And mourn'd when daylight's gleam was gone So drearily. Just then appeared the night's fair Queen, The Nymph rejoiced in her silver sheen So carelessly; And rose again on the crystal wave, Danced with the ray the Night-queen gave, So fearlessly. A voice in the breeze came rustling by And call'd the Nymph ; she raised her eye So fearfully : " "Why play the wanton with the beam Of sun and moon, on crystal stream, So cheerfully? " Away ! away ! false Nymph away. Thou hast no part in Luna's ray. Bright Sol's is thine; To his love-beam be true, false naiad, Or brooding clouds the stream shall shade, No ray shall shine." The voice grew hoarse, the breeze a gale. The moon was hid beneath a vail, The Nymph had flown; And lo ! the spirit of the rill. Whose shadow all the place did fill. Stood there alone : And loudly laughed till the stream was rough, — The graceless wight knew well enough, The golden flame Of twinkling stars, and crescent moon, And ardent sun at highest noon. Were all the same. THE MUSIC OF A DREAM. When cloudless is the sky of night Around a world at rest, When dew-drops catch the lunar light And gild the flow'rets crest ; When zephyr's voice is scarcely heard Low breathing in the grove. And when no more the evening bird Pours forth her notes of love, — ! then's the hour when music sweet Seeks softer scenes than ours, Where fancy's peerless minstrels meet In fancy's airy bowers. My soul hath been at that sweet time Where sleep's faint visions rise, And heard a softer, sweeter chime Than when the zephyr sighs. Ah ! mortal tongue can never tell Those symphonies, which seem Too high for harp or evening bell — The music of a dream. The tremblings of the sweetest strain By mortal minstrels given. Vibrate to rival these in vain, — The dream-song touches heaven ! But ah ! the phantom minstrel flies, And dream-charmed souls awake, To speak regret in real sighs, That his sweet strains should break. 'Tis thus with life — its terms of bliss Are measured by a song. The flitting form of happiness Ne'er tarries with us long. The sweetest joys, the brightest hours That on life's pathway gleam. Die like the harp, whence fancy pours The music of a dream.
