Life is a Dream;—it steals upon the Man,

He knows not how, but thinks himself awake;

'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep,

That turns its glossy surface to the Sun,

Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud

Of momentary Being—then it breaks—

To some tremendous Billow drops a prey,

And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care,

How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream,

And some—hard Fortune theirs—of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake,

A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep;

While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad,

And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight

Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her,

Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch

Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits

On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene.

Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines

The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave

Of the departed Lover; nor more mild

Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock,

That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave,

Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair,

Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art,

The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream

I will ask,

No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song,

Nor Court Applause—Meonides had Fame,

And with her poverty and pain and Care,

Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph,

Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note;

From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key,

And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries;

Ambition started when he sang of War,

In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre

Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound,

And frantic for the Field; and there Distress,

As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man,

With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse;

And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul

Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise,

And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World,

Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.—

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing

To bear me in some rapid even flight

Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard

That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang,

Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine

New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares.

Imagination turns the Tide of Time,

Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light,

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn

And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon,

Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream

Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve,

Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought,

And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns,

From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way,

Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth,

Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame,

That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom,

Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young—

Young, Thought's Œconomist, who wove reproof

Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone;

Whose Invitation was assault: he found

The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream,

The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend

With his Creation; when he led the Eye

Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring;

And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream,

And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf

Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills

Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace.

Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love

So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes

The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb?

Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing

Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm;

But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page,

And led thy weary plowman from the field,

And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod,

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire,

Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd

Imagination's pleasures to its Eye;

His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine;

His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns;

And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike,

At that dread Hour when the officious Friend,

Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss,

May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul,

And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies,

Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.—

Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same,

And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls,

Both sentenc'd to Contempt—unletter'd pride—

Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him

Who soars above or labours in the Clouds,

Who travels the sublime, or dives profound

In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream:

He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill

That owns him Lord untasted steals away,

Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down

The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy

And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song

Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night.

This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace,

Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord,

Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power,

To dive into the Depths of your profound,

And with a vile assemblage gather'd there

Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.—

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught,

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound,

Halting in frozen regions of the Air,

Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,

Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n

For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,

To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.—

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill

Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms

She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip

Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart

Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.

In other Climates, from the rays of Noon

Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm

Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow

Of shadied Weariness; and distant now

Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow,

The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun,

Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths,

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff,

Unconscious of the Surge that grates below

The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds,

As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul,

The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide,

Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now

The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave

Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream,

That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest,

Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead,

Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough;

Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light

Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep,

And now escaping, when the parent Sun

Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct,

Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen,

Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net

The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath

A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring

Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail.

The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air

Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece

The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak,

Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide,

With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence

The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return.

The winds that in converging Furrows plough

The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood,

Eugenio, see—for thou shalt bear His Name

Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was my Friend—

The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou

A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb;

For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead,

Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls

Of Genealogy and mingled Bones

Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity,

House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man;

And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell,

Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth,

Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds

Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love;

Which in th' eternal Records of the Just,

Are written with an Angels pen, and sung

With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy

And Gratulation with the Sons of God.—

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene],

How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade!

No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale

With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee

To taste its Sweets—and why this direful waste

Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death?

Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin?

All in rebellion rise?—and tepid Meads,

And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field,

And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods,

Spurn God's Command and drink forbidden Dew?—

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair,

(A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race)

A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love:

Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care,

The Sward was not—and Desolation slept

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this

A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes

Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid,

Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night,

And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye.

The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow,

And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began

To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age,

And Falshood from the female Eye to steal

The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat

Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room.

Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend

The ready Ear to tales of her own praise;

Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery,

But was, as Modesty is now, afraid

The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much.

Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown

Only in better Form, and Infant pomp

But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom,

And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.—

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin

And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man

And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.—

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell,

That prey upon Mankind.—Eugenio, give

Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things,

To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air,

And we will mark the dreary Train that vex

The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp,

Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.—

And who is he, from yonder antient roof,

With Horror in his Eye, who steals around

Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace

Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe

Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night,

And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond

Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness],

Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel,

And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan

Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul

From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns

The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure,

With Indolence and Folly, social pair,

Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built

The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd

The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve

Hail'd the arising or descending Sun

With gothic Note, harmoniously sad.

But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps

The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow

The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night

Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art

That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest

Within the Volumes' varied Character,

Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals

Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone

And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light

Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old,

From the Eternal Fountains of the God,

Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass;

Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd

The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things,

Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd

Without a Station, and without a Name.

Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light,

To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm

Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes,

Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke

The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword,

Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight,

And oft drew back, his silver wing born down

By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length

The Monster, rousing in Collected Might,

Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound

Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs

Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast

For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form

Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for her Wheel.—

Then on the Father dead the dying Son

Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill

Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies

Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye

Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear

Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply,

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man,

That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing

For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells

Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains

The tow'ring Palace of Impiety.

There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery

Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth

Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools,

Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth,

And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene.

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success,

A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form,

And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye

With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth;

They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite,

With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man,

Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal,

Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!—

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view

Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind,

And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow

Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels,

And urges the departed Saints who sleep,

To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth,

Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark

And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime

Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed!

And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep,

Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind

A thousand sooty Images of Death,

All horrible, and making Guilt's repose

Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels

But hark, he speaks—attend the Wretches Tale—

Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night,

And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain

To the rude Air:

"Come, all ye little Ills,

Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease

With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause

That sickens on the World, and all of Care

That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew

Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike,

That I may feel your force, and call it Joy,

So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt,

With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart,

And when a momentary Comfort strives,

Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing,

Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought,

And nips the still-born Joy.—

"To me no more

The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace,

Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard;

And did I think a base and sordid Heap

Had in it the Ability to pluck

The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came

In the vile Knowledge that it came to me?

It was a Madman's Dream—O ye good Gods!

If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset

The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut,

Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast,

Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep,

At their still howling North; and leave the Throne,

The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant

The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State,

On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep,

And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinkle there.—

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these

Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive

From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care,

When Life and Care may be remov'd together?—

If I were not a very Coward Wretch,

A very Shadow of the Man, a thing

Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag

A hated Being on—'twere but to leap

From this rough [Eminence], and all is done—

All that is done on this Side of the Bier.

But there, surrounded with impervious Fog,

Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come;

Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes,

Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease,

Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride,

Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice,

Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre

Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs,

Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity!

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child,

Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more;

The rest we seek in our reflecting View

Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy.

How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd!

Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night,

Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,

Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,

With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,

Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates

Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores

That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,

And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,

But, take it patient with a sober hope,

That soon Distress may vary his assault,

Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.—

But see another Son of Night and Care,

A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold,

Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate.

Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels

The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives

The Common Visit of Calamity.