The Land Of Dreams Poem by Peter John Allan

I was a wanderer in the land of dreams,
And winged fancies met me by the way,
Fairer than morning's beams;
With the cool murmuring of mountain streams
My thirsting heart they led astray,
And left me, as they vanish'd into air,
Lost in the midnight of despair.

Mine eyes were upward bent
Towards the firmament,
Which was one mighty frown.
But, sudden through the gloom,
Like spirit from the tomb,
Shone forth night's silver crown;
The star of chastity, all pure and holy,
Like a young nun, so fair, so pale, and melancholy.

I started to my feet, and by her light,
Guided aright,
I trod the path of truth once more,
And swiftly sped away;
Nor did I stay
Until I reach'd an unknown ocean shore,
Where harp-like ev'ry wave
The softest music gave;
And all the winds, with voices low and sweet,
Did hymns of ecstasy repeat.

Here, as I stood amazed,
And o'er the billows gazed,
A magic skiff drew near;
And there was none to steer,
Or urge it forward with the skilful oar;
All silently it came,
Swift as the lightning flame,
And touched the lonely shore.

I sprang into the bark,
At once the skies grew dark;
The tempest left his lair,
And bared his lightning brand,
And with one stroke of his gigantic hand
Smote ocean into fury, wild and fell,
As though its raging waves were blent with those of hell.

I stretch me in that narrow bark to die,
When on my ear there flows
A sweet and gently sigh;
Sweet as the incense of the earliest rose,
Which Zephyr on her wing
Conveys a welcome gift unto her mother Spring.
That sigh awoke me from my trance of fear-
I look'd, and lo! the skies again were clear;
And the bright dawning light of day
Fell on a beauteous isle that lay
A solitary Eden of the sea,
A realizèd dream of poesy.

Upon its margin green
A radiant form was seen,
Majestic as the star-illumined night.
Her presence seemed to throw
A spiritual glow,
Around the meanest things, a regal robe of light.
Her left hand held a lamp of purest flame,
Unquenchable its light;
A golden sceptre glittered in her right,
Wherewith man's stubborn heart she well could tame.

She beckoned me a smiled. At once my soul
Resumed its self-control.
My boat draws near that holy land,
And now by Virtue's side I stand.

No word she spake, but let the way
O'er flowery meads, through fragrant groves;
Which the free birds on every spray
Proclaimed their paradise and love's.
And, oh, what beauty has its birth
In yonder lonely vale!
A brighter heaven is opened out on earth,
To which the sun is pale.

A palace on whose walls combine
All the varying hues that shine
Along the glittering bow of heaven.
The golden gates expand-
Forth bound a joyous band;
Maidens and youths in bright attire,
Singing in gladsome chorus to the lyre,
Songs passing sweet of faithful love,
And joys that sinless spirits prove.

And among these creatures fair,
One of melancholy air,
Whose soft blue eyes bent down to earth
With crystal tears, I viewed-
Unconscious she of all their mirth,
Moved lonely on in pensive mood,
The virgin bride of solitude.

Tresses loose, of deepest brown,
Float her neck and shoulders down,
In many a wavy, silky twine,
Like purple clusters of the vine,
And half obscured her lovely face,
Where recent tears had left their trace.

Soon as the happy band espied
The heavenly being by my side,
Their voices rose with loftier strain,
Their harps with wilder music rang.
But, oh! my mortal lyre in vain
Would echo what they sang.
Such melody might only rise
From far beyond those starry skies.

That weeping maiden, at the sound,
First threw one 'wildered glance around;
Then with a smile-oh not so bright
On Eden burst day's primal light,
As did that sunny smile on me.
By Virtue's side, on bended knee,
She sank, and, with her blushing cheek,
Hid in the mazes of her hair,
Loose flowing o'er her forehead fair,
Like shadows cast by moonlight pale
Athwart some fairy-haunted vale,
She strove in vain to speak.
But Virtue, with benignant smile,
That fond confusion watch'd awhile,
And soon, with accents mildly sweet,
'Arise,' she said, 'thy bridegroom meet,
Rescued by me from falsehood's chain;
See he be captured not again.'

Could I, from heaven's melodious choir,
Select a harp, whose notes should prove,
The very breath and soul of love,
Soft as dew, and clear as fire,
The morning's dew, and crystal fire of day,
Then fitly might I hope to sing
The joys from woman's love that spring.