Whose loss we wept, back to our glad embrace,
To wear the tomb's white drapery, yet to live,
And hold unshrinking pastime with the dead,
To catch clear glimpses of fair streets of gold,
And harpers harping on the eternal hills,
These are the gifts of dreams, and we would speak
Most reverently of their high ministry.
—See, life is but a dream. Awake! Awake!
Break off the trance of vanity, and look
With keen, undazzled eye, above the cloud
That canopies man's hopes. Yea! hear the voice
Of Deity, that 'mid his hour of sleep,
In the still baptism of his dewy dreams,
Doth bear such witness of the undying soul
As breath'd o'er Jordan's wave, "Behold my Son!"
THE GRAVE OF THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.
"In the garden of Charlottenburgh, I came suddenly among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, a spot sacred to silence, or to the soft-breathed song, but the cypress and willow declared it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble, lay a sheet, and the outline of a human form, was plainly visible beneath its folds. It was reverently turned back, and displayed the statue of the Queen of Prussia. It is said to be a perfect resemblance,—not as in death,—but when she lived, to bless and to be blessed. She seems scarcely to sleep; the mind and heart are on her sweet lips. Here the king often comes and passes long hours alone; here too, he brings her children, to offer garlands at her grave."—Notes during a Ramble in Germany.
Who slumbereth 'neath yon Doric fane,
Within that garden's shade?
Her brow upon its pillow white
In careless languor laid?
