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,
Stamped and coloured on my sprite,
In a dream of yesternight.
In a bark, methought, lone steering,
I was cast on Ocean’s strife;
This, ’twas whispered in my hearing,
Meant the sea of life.
Sad regrets from past existence
Came, like gales of chilling breath;
Shadowed in the forward distance
Lay the land of Death.
Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought,
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre’s face;
And my flesh’s hair upstood,—
’Twas mine own similitude.
But my soul revived at seeing
Ocean, like an emerald spark,
Kindle, while an air-dropt being
Smiling steered my bark.
Heaven-like—yet he looked as human
As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman
Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion’s breath
Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death—
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre’s eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them—turned its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.
“Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit!
That my death-hour is not come?
Say, what days shall I inherit?—
Tell my soul their sum.”
“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
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch—
Make not the untold request
That’s now revolving in thy breast.
“’Tis to live again, remeasuring
Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!
Life’s career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine—
Threads by Fate together spun?
Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight’s glance
’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.
“Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble—
Friendship’s death-dissevered ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble
Of Ambition’s prize?
Say thy life’s new guided action
Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs—
Still would Envy and Detraction
Double not their stings?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.”
I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail!
Spirit! let us onward sail,
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!
Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore!
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!
And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?
Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soul
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!
Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes!
Joy to the band71 this day on Egypt’s coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore!
Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia’s host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
Notes
71 The 42nd Regiment.