Two Dreams. Dream the First. I saw, in dream, an aged reverend Man, Sitting upon a heap of shards and cinders ; Whom when I greeted passing, “ Stop !” said he, “ Thou must not that way go !” “And wherefore not?” “ Because I disallow it. Stay, my son ; O hear me, gentle son ! Close, close thine eyes, That I may teach thy pathway.—Wilt thou not ? Audacious vagabond ! rejecting him Who sits in place of God !” At which I smiled, And pass’d. He, frowning, lifted both his hands, As if to curse, but in that effort split And fell to pieces, like a lump of sand Upon the seashore in a rising tide. Then all the sea-fowl rose and scream’d, and all The fishes leap’d and tumbled in the surf, A shrill harsh cry, a fluttering turbulence, Subsiding instantly ; and lo, I paced The broad smooth strand familiar, and the sea Roll’d calmly shoreward, murmuring round my steps With music, underneath a sky of light Purer than azure wildflow’rs ; music finer, Tenderer than song of birds or children’s voices Floating in hymns of joy on morning breezes. Dream the Second. I dream’d : And, as it seem’d, A gorgeous Palace-Temple I beheld ; And through its,golden gates impell’d, And measureless halls, a moving crowd From every land where men may live and die Drew to the central dome. There sat the Prophet-King enthronèd high, White-robed, serene, in solemn majesty ; Melodious wail of anthems, waxing loud, Burst in thundering billows of sound ; Incense creeping round Rose without intermission to his feet, and clomb And hung with clouds the mighty dome, Wreathing the sculptured saints and angels there ; While to the people’s prayerful eyes Angels and saints themselves were dimly congregated Midway the dome and in the outside air ; A throng of glorious messengers that waited, Eager for errands to and from the skies, With wings of strength To mount the steep of heav’n and find at length God’s own Almighty Throne. Then my dream shifted somehow, and became Different ; and yet the things were still the same : A lonely hut on a moor ; A white-beard Man and poor ; Wind in the crannies whistling and sighing ; Embers dying, red in the gloom, Sending a sluggish bleary fume To eddy around the rotten thatch ; And the beetles and centipedes ran about From the holes in the floor ; And the rickety door Stirr’d its latch At the push of some creature sniffing without. ’Twas near midnight, The falling flake Had turn’d the black moor deathly white, When this Old Man mutter’d, half-awake, “ I am supreme over every King— My talisman’s greater than Solomon’s Ring— All wisdom and power to me belong !” And the fire went out as he croon’d his lingering song. Ice-cold grew his feet ; All his limbs lost heat ; His brain ceased to think, His eyes ceased to wink, His heart ceased to beat ; His jaw fell, but his forehead kept a frown. Louder the wind began to blow, And blew the hovel down, And hid the corpse in snow. March, 1870. William Allingham.