A Vision

Dublin Core


A Vision


Upon the margin of a lake,
Along the rocks that rudely break,
The thousand rivulets and hills,
That oozing from the mountain's brow
Fall trembling to the lake below;
A traveller rode in quaint array,
A gallant steed of dappled a gray:
Close to his side a broad-sword hung,
And o'er his arm his pouch was slung
That look'd quite dark and old.
Around his waist was girt a dirk
Of beauteous and exquisite work'
Inlaid with purest gold;
While waved above his helmet bright
A tall clear plume of red and white,
Disturb'd by zephyrs of the air,
That loved to shake a plume so fair;
The stranger paused, and show'd a face
That seem'd the home of every grace;
Well vers'd in every country wile
Of flattering art and winning smile.
The slight curl'd lip and deep black eye,
The ruddy cheek and forehead high,
Quite fair, it closely viewed,
The Grecian nose and dimpled chin,
Showed a spirit strong within,
And hard to be subdued.
The stranger paused and turned around,
And from his charger made a bound,
And rushed toward the little rill,
That trickled slowly down the hill;
And quaffed in copious draughts his fill:
But while I gazed, my slumbers broke,
The vision passed, and I awoke!




2:39, p. 314-5





Triolus, “A Vision,” Periodical Poets, accessed May 18, 2024, https://periodicalpoets.com/items/show/189.


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