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Marguerite; or, The Isle of Demons and Other Poems cover

Marguerite; or, The Isle of Demons and Other Poems

Chapter 24: THE LOVER’S DREAM.
By George Martin
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Poetry

About This Book

A varied collection of lyric and narrative verse centered on a long romantic legend about a woman’s ordeal on a haunted island and its personal and moral aftermath, accompanied by shorter sonnets, ballads, and occasional pieces. Many poems draw on Canadian history and local scenes, offering meditative nature writing, urban sketches of Montreal and Ottawa life, winter and carnival scenes, elegies and civic tributes, and moral or humorous vignettes about everyday people. Themes of love, exile, faith, memory, and social concern recur across diverse forms and voices, blending personal reflection with regional colour and historic atmosphere.

THE LOVER’S DREAM.

Last night, When all the world was still,— All but the whip-poor-will,— A vision bright Beamed on my lonely sleep, On eyes late used to weep, And robed the world in light.
My dear! I saw thee once again All beautiful, as when In moonlight clear We vowed beside the lake, No fiend should ever shake, Our plighted love sincere.
She came From forth an azure cloud, And, like an angel, bowed Fond o’er my frame, And with her heavenly look, While I, with transport, shook, Breathed lovingly my name.
A moan! I woke, the vision fled, And feverish on my bed Till daylight shone, I turned, and wept, and turned, While on my lips still burned The pressure of her own.
O Death! Whose harshness did not spare A face and form so fair, Whoever saith Thou art to all the wise A blessing in disguise, Wastes only idle breath.
No more:— Ah! how that sound, no more, Travels from shore to shore The wide world o’er;— No more shall she entwine Her young heart’s joy with mine, Save such as dreams restore.
Ye dreams! That do unveil the past, And o’er our spirits cast Supernal gleams, Do you deceive us quite, Gray Wizards of the night? Is all not what it seems?
The sage, With philosophic look The simple may rebuke From age to age, And speculations deep Of mind and matter, heap On his immortal page:—
His skill, Majestic though it be, And dearly loved by me, Is weakness still; I would not cast away The thought that spirits may In true communion thrill.
O bright, And beautiful; again, Again, come to me when Sleep seals my sight; Come with those love-lit eyes, Come with thy fragrant sighs, Come, love, O come to-night.