600 JAMES CLERK MAXWELL. 



Every knoll is now an island, every wooded bank a shore, 

 To the lake of quiet vapour that has spread the valley o'er. 

 Sheep are couched on every hillock, waiting till the morning 



dawns, 

 Hares are on .their early rambles, limping o'er the dewy 



lawns. 

 All within the house is silent, darkened all the chambers 



seem, 

 As with noiseless step I enter, gliding onwards in my 



dream. 



What ! has Time run out his cycle, do the years return 



again? 

 Are there treasure-caves in Dreamland where departed days 



remain ? 

 I have leapt the bars of distance left the life that late I 



led 



I remember years and labours as a tale that I have read ; 

 Yet my heart is hot within me, for I feel the gentle power 

 Of the spirits that still love me, waiting for this sacred hour. 

 Yes, I know the forms that meet me are but phantoms of 



the brain, 

 For they walk in mortal bodies, and they have not ceased 



from pain. 

 Oh ! those signs of human weakness, left behind for ever 



now, 



Dearer far to me than glories round a fancied seraph's brow. 

 Oh ! the old familiar voices ! Oh ! the patient waiting eyes ! 

 Let me live with them in dreamland, while the world in 



slumber lies ! 

 For by bonds of sacred honour will they guard my soul in 



sleep 

 From the spells of aimless fancies, that around my senses 



creep. 



They will link the past and present into one continuous life, 

 While I feel their hope, their patience, nerve me for the 



daily strife. 



