On the margin of the mystic shores of rest,

Where imagination mollifies the breast,

Where the fondest dreams their pleasant vigils keep,

In the vestibule of slumber, soft and deep,

Lies a neutral zone, salubrious and sweet,—

Where the realms of lethargy and action meet,—

Here the halcyon delights float by and fade,

Or the evil visions hover and invade;

Here the bosom entertains its secret guest,

With the silent plaint of agony suppressed,

As unwelcome thoughts rise from the dust and mould,

Of the vanished years in pantomime unrolled,

Neither wakeful, nor in sentient repose,

Nor in apathy, complete and comatose;

As when Lethe with her mild nepenthic surge,

Doth in chaos of forgetfulness submerge,

But a drowsy consciousness, a blend of dreams,

With reality's extravagant extremes;