AFAR -away in fairy land, A fountain starts up from the golden sand; The lime and the orange tree bloom by its side, And dip their flowers in its sparkling tide: And gladness reigns, and perennial spring; And birds of Paradise sit and sing From morn to eve; while the moon's pale ray Lights up the grove for the mocking-bird's lay; And, when night comes, he sits and singe Till the very welkin with melody rings: Now sad, now gay, his minstrelsy seems Meet for the hour by the fountain of dreams; For, on that hour, strange forms, I ween, From that mystic fountain to rise are seen; And phantoms start up end the moonbeams ride, Till they sit and whisper by the sleeper's side. Bubble! Bubble! here comes a slender shape, And its white limbs shine through the gossamer crape Of its mantle's folds; while it rises to air, And seeks the couch of a maiden fair: She moves, and her color comes and goes, And her brow wears the lily and then the rose; And her lips breathe a name-and then she sighs, For her lover appears before her eyes. Poor thing! she wakes with a moan and a tear, For it is but a week since she followed his bier. Bubble! bubble! the waters flash, And a shape flits forth with an azure sash; And it waves its wings, as light as air, Till it finds the poor student asleep in his chair: His lamp burns low, and his features fall, With a ghastly reflection, upon the wall; For disease and care will soon quench the flame That is burning his soul with. the hope of fame. But mark! he smiles – for he stands on high, And an eager crowd are gathering nigh; They shout out his name and fling him gay wreaths. No more hunger: banquets are set, And ruddy wines his parched lips wet! And he gazes with love on a fair, gentle bride 'Tis one who had spurned him, in scorn, from her side. .Dream on, poor student: how hurried thy breath! Thou'lt have time to dream in the long sleep of death. Bubble! bubble! here comes a sprite That makes the mocking-bird hush with fright: Wan is its face and gloomy its weeds, As on the shrinking moonbeam it speeds; And carries visions, with terror rife, To the slumbering thoughts of the soldier's young wife: She sees him lie cold on the battle-ground, And his blood is sprinkled on the shrubs around; While the wolves and vultures come in force To make their supper upon his copse: She starts and wakes, with a scream and shiver; But the dream speaks falsely now as ever, For her brave-hearted love sleeps calm in his tent, And the trumpet of fame to his hearthstone hath sent The tidings that kindle a blush of pride On the velvet cheek of his youthful bride. Bubble! bubble! a form so fair Springs from the fountain and rises to air, That it seems a spirit from realms of light, As it sails on the night-wind and dazzles the sight; And now to thy eye it grows small and faint, And it seeks the couch of the dying saint: How sweetly he smiles, as softest strains Of golden harps vanquish his pains! And he walks in white, while he lists to the song That sounds on his ear from the angel throng; And the pains and woes of life ate over, And little cherubs around him hover, And beckon him on: to him is given A vision of truth – for he wakes in heaven. And, while on their ears his eloquence breathes,