“Merciful heavens! is that true?”
Ben Hassan’s Dream.
I stood alone beside a mighty sea;
The waves in awful majesty swept in
And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond
The snowy-crested line of breakers rode
A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall
Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky:
“O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true,
Be merciful, that they who watch on board,
And they that wait at home, may once more clasp
The hands and press the lips of those they love.”
The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent.
’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands
Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky;
Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before,
Behind; which way I looked was burning sand:
The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream
Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned.
The caravan had gone. I leaned low down
To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost!
Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?
Another scene: The sun had set, and peace
Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume
Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound
Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain
Where camels browsed. The slender minarets,
And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town,
That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms.
A troop of horsemen slowly came in view;
Their banner bore the crescent and the star.
I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”
And then, it seemed, I was within a grot
That opened on a placid lake. The moon
Was at the full and o’er the water threw
A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood
A child with upturned face. I placed my hand
Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake
Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared
With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off!
Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned
To fly—when suddenly the vision changed:
Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof,
A happy, careless child. The olden scenes
Were fresh again, and things forgot had life
And form. O home!—how blest are they that have
A home!—sweet haven sure when others fail!
“Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!”
It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes
Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled
And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face,
I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.