A DREAM. WELL may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions As make life itself a dream.— Half our daylight faith's a fable; Sleep disports with shadows too, Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view. Ne'er by day did Reason's mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Phantasy, Stamp'd and colour'd on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean's strife; This, 'twas whisper'd in my hearing, Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath; Now seeming more, now less remote, But my soul revived at seeing And as some sweet clarion's breath "Types not this," I said, " fair spirit, That my death-hour is not come? Say, what days shall I inherit ?— "No," he said, " yon phantom's aspect, Trust me, would appal thee worse, Held in clearly measured prospect: Ask not for a curse! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear The close-brought tickings of a watch- " "Tis to live again, remeasuring Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver! As to wish its fitful fever Could experience, ten times thine, 'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. "Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble— Friendship's death-dissever'd ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition's prize? Say thy life's new guided action Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings? Worth itself is but a charter "Hail! To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr." Envying, fearing, hating none Guardian Spirit, steer me on!" LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give, Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, Rose on the flames of victory to heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn! |