Archive for March 21st, 2020

Saturday, 21 March 2020

Stanzas to —— by Harry Stoe van Dyk

A vision cross’d me as I slept,—
A vision unallied to pain;
And, in my day-dreams, it has kept
Possession of my heart and brain.
It is a portion of my soul,
And, if the soul may never die,
That vision, now, is past control,
And shares its immortality.

It took a form that time may change
In others’ eyes, but not in mine,
For coldness—hate cannot estrange
My still unshaken heart from thine.
I saw thee, then, as I have seen
The cherish’d one of earlier years;
Ere pale suspicion came between
Our hearts, and poison’d both with fears.

I heard thee speak, and felt the tone
Of welcome o’er my spirit steal;
As if our souls had never known
What those who part in coldness feel.
Thy hand, to mine, in fondness clung,
And when I met its thrilling press,
I almost deem’d it had a tongue,
That whispered love and happiness.

‘Tis said, that dreams may herald truth;—
But dreams like these are worse than vain;
For what can bring back vanish’d youth,
Or love’s unshaded hours again?
They do but mock us,—giving scope
To joys, from which we wake and part;
And then are lost the hues of hope,—
The rainbow of the clouded heart.

They are the spirits of the past,
That haunt the chambers of the mind;
Recalling thoughts too sweet to last,
And leaving blank despair behind.
They are like trees from stranger bow’rs,—
Transplanted trees, that take not root;
Young buds, that never come to flow’rs;
Frail blossoms, that ne’er turn to fruit

They are like wily fiends, who bring
The nectar we might joy to sip,
And yell in triumph as they fling
The goblet from our fever’d lip.
They are like Ocean’s faithless calm,
That with a breath is rous’d to strife,
Or hollow friendship’s proffer’d balm,
Polluting all the springs of life;

I thought we met at silent night,
And roam’d, as we were wont to roam,
And pictur’d, with a fond delight
The pleasures of our future home:
That home, our hearts may never share,
‘Tis lost to both for ever now;
The tree of hope lies wither’d—bare,.
Without a blossom, leaf, or bough.

To words—vain words—no pow’r is giv’n,
The torments of my soul to tell;
I slept, and had a dream of heav’n—
I woke—and felt the pangs of hell.
Yet, I would not forget thee—No!
Though thou hast wither’d hope in me—
Nor for a world of joys forego
The one sweet joy of loving thee.

From: van Dyk, H. S., The Gondola, 1827, Lupton Relfe: London, pp. 242-245.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=2cOvgaj27A4C)

Date: 1827

By: Harry Stoe van Dyk (1798-1828)