SIR ROBERT AYTON.

TIME’S REVENGE.

She, who but late in beauty’s flower was seen,
Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—­
Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,
Now sheds her graces in the waste of years. 
Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,
And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;
And querulous the voice by time repressed,
Whose artless music stole me from my rest. 
Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair
And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.

From the Greek of AGATHIAS. 
Translation of ROBERT BLAND.

THE DREAM.

Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence:  sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,—­they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power,—­
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not,—­what they will,
And shake us with the vision that’s gone by. 
The dread of vanished shadows.—­Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow?  What are they? 
Creations of the mind?—­The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep,—­for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of a mild declivity, the last
As ’t were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing,—­the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself,—­but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young,—­yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked