Thoughts almost to madness wrought;
Ever, ever seeking rest,
Never finding what I Sought--

Till I gave my wanderings o'er,
By a black and icy stream,--
Deep I plunged and knew no more:--
Father, read me now my dream.

The old man bowed his head,
And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow,
As if he struggled with some rising thought
Which should have kept its place in memory's urn
Till he had cast the shadow from his soul,
Which for a while had bound it in a spell
Born of the bygone years,--then thus he spoke:

Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee
The import of thy vision,--I will tell
Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery
Foreshadow of the future,--for full well
I know the wizard lore, whose witchery
Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell!
And from approaching years a knowledge wrings
Of what they bear upon their viewless wings.

Along life's weary way of pain and care,
From earliest infancy to eldest age,
Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air,
Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage;