An Opium Fantasy

Soft hangs the opiate in the brain, And lulling soothes the edge of pain, Till harshest sound, far off or near, Sings floating in its mellow sphere.

What wakes me from my heavy dream? Or am I still asleep? Those long and soft vibrations seem A slumbrous charm to keep.

The graceful play, a moment stopp'd,  Distance again unrolls, Like silver balls that, softly dropp'd,  Ring into golden bowls.

I question of the poppies red, The fairy flaunting band, While I, a weed with drooping head Within their phalanx stand:

"Some airy one, with scarlet cap!  The name unfold to me Of this new minstrel who can lap   Sleep in his melody!"

Bright grew their scarlet kerchiefed heads, As freshening winds had blown, And from their gently swaying beds They sang in undertone,

"O he is but a little Owl,  The smallest of his kin, Who sits beneath the Midnight's cowl   And makes this airy din. "

"Deceitful tongues, of fiery tints,  Far more than this you know,— That he is your Enchanted Prince   Doom'd as an owl to go."

"Nor his fond play for years hath stopp'd  But nightly he unrolls His silver ball that, softly dropp'd,   Ring into golden bowls."