  O the heart has dreams Elysian! That steal o'er it calm and sweet, Hushing pain like a magician Who binds spirits at his feet. But the forms that throng its mazes Are too bright for mortal birth, And the scenes that fancy raises Far too beautiful for earth. Let us turn with humbler spirits To the things that God has made, Pass the weakness flesh inherits, Since the sunshine, too, has shade. 'Tis the pride of human nature That makes life seem cold and drear, Drawing up a dwarfish stature To o'ertop its proper sphere. Gath'ring round it misty fancies, Like the mountain's cloudy wreath, Till the spirit's errant glances See no beauty underneath. There are true hearts beating nigh us As we fight the fight of life, Hearts unstain'd by guilty bias, Hearts unharden'd by its strife. There are gentle bosoms swelling With all motions pure and kind, That unceasingly are welling Solace to the weary mind. Few there are without possessing Some good virtue in their heart, Whence, beneath love's soft compressing, As from flowers, sweet perfumes start. Dreamer, turn then to the real With a frank and trusting soul, Not alone to the ideal Let thy genial currents roll. Pierce the clay that oft encloses The pure brightness of a gem, Think thee, flowers less fair than roses, In their sweetness rival them. Thus in truth, and not in dreaming, Life will blossom to the full, Unto love's eyes all things seeming Prism'd through the beautiful. |
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