A Dream of the Lands: A Poem

I " A JBraost of Ifjr Eattil*

Verses from the poem, "The Rose of Love."

tagft IiY ALFRED LAMBOURNE

In this Full time, this Hey-day of the Year, My Soul, accordant with the Fairness wrought, Now with the Queenly Roses owns the Sphere, All Earth is Mine in Luxury of Thought. v i

T see the Fair Ones where 'mid Northern Hills

The wild Cicada from the Vine is heard That Beauty of the South my Vision fills, Where Sings in Ecstasy the Mocking-bird.

That Isle so Verdant fair before me Lies — Within the Soul old Melody awakes That Dewy land where Form with Feature vies, The Rose-like Beauties by Killarney's Lakes.

And Albion with Streams and Meadows bright That Laugh and Smile beneath the Skies of Gray, Where Roses still are Rivals —Red and White And English Maids are Fresh and Fair as they. h

Where Grew the Roses of the Long Ago, And where, Red-hearted, open now Love's Flowers, I walk in Paths by many a gray Chateau, And in quaint Gardens by old Castle towers.

Where o'er the River sound the Lorelei's notes, And Moonlit rocks above the Waters rise, And Hail, as yet the dying Echo floats, The Maids of Rhineland with their Love-lit Eyes.

And in Castile I Mingle in the Throng Where bright Sierras o'er fair Cities shine ;

Where Spain's old Towers hath Tagns mir- rored long, And Roses o'er the Moorish lattice twine.

Where Fountains in the Court of Lions play, The Lovers of Grenada plead their Suits And as of old the Roses drip with spray, Where Moorish Damsels held their Silver lutes.

O those Bright scenes Imagination views, Bohemia and where the Danube runs, Where by his fire the Dark-browed Lover woos, The wild-eyed Gypsy Maiden of the Suns.

And Mine, this Hour, those Scenes of Loveliness, Where Sunny Naples looks across the Bay '

Where Roses still the Sculptured Graces press, And gentle wavelets Laugh in summer play. M)M

And now the Verdant glades and Ivied slopes, Where Peneus its rest through Tempe seeks Where once the rapt Hellene composed his tropes, That Vale of Thessaly beloved of Greeks.

The sighing of low Summer winds I hear, As swaying Roses edge the bending Corn, See slender, pale, the Moonlit columns near, The Minarets that grace the Golden Horn.

Alway the Tale that's told is Love's old Tale, In lands where Roses fret the Cypress glooms, Where Behat winds through Cashmir's sunny Vale, In old Damascus where the Rose yet blooms.