The dream is over,
The vision has flown;
Dead leaves are lying
Where roses have blown;
Wither'd and strown
Are the hopes I cherished,--
All hath perished
But grief alone.

My heart was a garden
Where fresh leaves grew
Flowers there were many,
And weeds a few;
Cold winds blew,
And the frosts came thither,
For flowers will wither,
And weeds renew!

Youth's bright palace
Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre
And golden throne;
As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled,--
All hath crumbled
But grief alone!

Wither, oh, whither,
Have fled away
The dreams and hopes
Of my early day?
Ruined and gray
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded--
Ah! where are they?

Once this world
Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon
And its starry night;
Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I bless'd the Giver
With hushed delight.

These were the days
Of story and song,
When Hope had a meaning
And Faith was strong.
"Life will be long,
And lit with Love's gleamings;"
Such were my dreamings,
But, ah, how wrong!

Youth's illusions,
One by one,
Have passed like clouds
That the sun looked on.
While morning shone,
How purple their fringes!
How ashy their tinges
When that was gone!

Darkness that cometh
Ere morn has fled--
Boughs that wither
Ere fruits are shed--
Death bells instead
Of a bridal's pealings--
Such are my feelings,
Since Hope is dead!

Sad is the knowledge
That cometh with years--
Bitter the tree
That is watered with tears;
Truth appears,
With his wise predictions,
Then vanish the fictions
Of boyhood's years.

As fire-flies fade
When the nights are damp--
As meteors are quenched
In a stagnant swamp--
Thus Charlemagne's camp,
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond Valley,
And Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders
Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun's rambles,
And Crusoe's isle,
And Princes who smile
On the Genii's daughters
'Neath the Orient waters
Full many a mile,

And all that the pen
Of Fancy can write
Must vanish
In manhood's misty light--
Squire and knight,
And damosels' glances,
Sunny romances
So pure and bright!

These have vanished,
And what remains?--
Life's budding garlands
Have turned to chains;
Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles
O'er desert plains!

The dove will fly
From a ruined nest,
Love will not dwell
In a troubled breast;
The heart has no zest
To sweeten life's dolour--
If Love, the Consoler,
Be not its guest!

The dream is over,
The vision has flown;
Dead leaves are lying
Where roses have blown;
Wither'd and strown
Are the hopes I cherished,--
All hath perished
But grief alone!

      Yes! the Summer is returning,
      Warmer, brighter beams are burning
      Golden mornings, purple evenings,
        Come to glad the world once more.
      Nature from her long sojourning
      In the Winter-House of Mourning,
      With the light of hope outpeeping,
      From those eyes that late were weeping,
      Cometh dancing o'er the waters
        To our distant shore.
      On the boughs the birds are singing,
            Never idle,
            For the bridal
      Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing
      All the green bells on the branches,
      Which the soul of man doth hear;
            Music-shaken,
            It doth waken,
      Half in hope, and half in fear,
And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!

      For the Year is sempiternal,
      Never wintry, never vernal,
      Still the same through all the changes
        That our wondering eyes behold.
      Spring is but his time of wooing--
      Summer but the sweet renewing
      Of the vows he utters yearly,
      Ever fondly and sincerely,
      To the young bride that he weddeth,
        When to heaven departs the old,
      For it is her fate to perish,
            Having brought him,
            In the Autumn,
      Children for his heart to cherish.
      Summer, like a human mother,
      Dies in bringing forth her young;
            Sorrow blinds him,
            Winter finds him
      Childless, too, their graves among,
Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.

      Thrice the great Betrothéd naming,
      Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming,
      February, March, and April,
        Spread the tidings far and wide;
      Thrice they questioned each new-comer,
      "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer,
      With her rich imperial dower,
      Golden fruit and diamond flower,
      And her pearly raindrop trinkets,
        Should not be the green Earth's Bride?"
      All things vocal spoke elated
            (Nor the voiceless
            Did rejoice less)--
      "Be the heavenly lovers mated!"
      All the many murmuring voices
      Of the music-breathing Spring,
            Young birds twittering,
            Streamlets glittering,
      Insects on transparent wing--
All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!

      Now the rosy East gives warning,
      'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning.
      Sweetest truant from Elysium,
        Golden morning of the May!
      All the guests are in their places--
      Lilies with pale, high-bred faces--
      Hawthorns in white wedding favours,
      Scented with celestial savours--
      Daisies, like sweet country maidens,
        Wear white scolloped frills to-day;
      'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant
            Primrose sitteth,
            Nor permitteth
      Any of her kindred present,
      Specially the milk-sweet cowslip,
      E'er to leave the tranquil