University of Virginia Library

DAY-DREAMING.

I see them rise; the forms of other Days,
And this strange Room, and all these objects here,
That speak not to the heart, with one light wave
Of Fancyswand, are gone like unreal things.
Yea! like a dream, give place to a real dream,
Which for the Moment is by far more true,
And has a far more real Existence, than
The palpable Objects which around me stand.
Then mark one Thing well! Dreams are actual Life;
That which we feel alone exists to us,
And what we feel not, is as if 'twere not;
Thus absent Things are often nearer and
More present than the Present themselves, yea!
What we have lost is thus more at our Heart
Than what we have! but you may justly ask,
«How can it then be lost!» yea! verily,
Thou sayst it: that which we have at the Heart
Is never lost, until that Heart itself
Be crumbled into Dust; for what do we
Possess so truly as that which we have
At Heart? then take all Godlike Things to Heart,
And none wilt thou éer lose; nor Love, nor Youth,
Nor Friendship, nay, they become more thine own!
Before they were withont thee, but they now
Are in thee, with thee, yea! unto the last,
More beautiful from being lost, and more
Truly existent because they exist
No longer! is not this a wonder! yea!
And yet so true that thou hast but to think
And it is wrought! then dream thou wisely, dream
Rightoften, till possessing in thy Dreams
Whatever thou hast lost, thou canst no more
Lose anything; until thou com'st to think
The waking Notion of some bitter Loss,
An idle Dream! till, éen when from thy Dream
Thou wak'st, thou bringëst with thee into Life,
A firm Belief that thou hast nothing lost;
And then, then be assurred thou really hast
Lost Nothing! thus, thus often do I dream,
And were I at such moment roused, I should
Feel like one suddenly transported to
Some unknown World; the eventful Interval
Forgot, in which I grew from Boy to man;
The tears, the Heartbreak, and the sufferings;
And I should wake just as I was of old,
At heart the very, very selfsame Boy,
Whose timeuntouchëd form I now behold.
I see the Armchair by the Fireside,
Wherein my Father sat, and connëd o'er
The Daysnewspaper, full of sound and noise,
Of bubbles which have burst, of news so stale,
That were a man to read it now, it would
Set him ayawning, tho' He reads the same,
Or like, each morning, and bewunders, and
Bestares his neighbour, knowing not that there
Is nothing new beneath the sun; That he
Himself alone, is new in this grey Earth.
Now see I too my Brothers, happy Boys,
Full of their schemes, and laying out their time,
As if the Hourglass was held by their
And not his hand; as if with all their strength,
They could urge on one little, little grain,
Before th' allotted moment, or retard
It but a second, tho'it were about
To drag them down into the darksome grave.
And there is the old Housedog, muchbeloved,
And loving much too, living on from meal
To meal, yet by Affection dignified.
And there I see myself, or rather there
I feel myself, and am; once more a boy!
The load of fifteen years thrown from my heart.
And if the moments in Time's glass still run,
While I thus dream, at least I grow not old
With them, as on they speed-I do but live
Them o'eragain, and rob them from the Past.
And could I but preserve within my breast
The young heart of that Dream, Oh! I should go
Down to the Grave still with a Child's glad soul;
As little touched by Care as is the flower,
As joyous as the wave which breaks upon
The beach, then sinks back to the Mighty Deep
From whenee it had its being: and if this
Be not attainable, yet still at least,
I from Time's spiritgalling yoke, have drawn
My neck, and like the weary steed, have breathd
In Peace awhile-then once more on my way,
In calm content, and hoping all things good,
Yea making them so by that very hope,
I move, and from my deep heart there is sent,
A perfume, as from flowers but just fill'd
With freshest dew, which maketh sweet the breath,
The weekday and familiar breath of Life,
Yea! sweet as that of Paradise-as tho'
I were an angel! Lo? I am so now,
Tho' but for one brief moment; for the heart
Which beats so blessedly within my breast,
Is that same pure and loving heart which at
Life's dawn, fresh from the hands of God himself,
Lit up my young eyes in their deep Delight,
When for the first time opening gently up,
They met my Mother's holy face bent o'er
Me like an angel's, from that sphere, which I
Had but just left. Thus Heaven is everywhere,
Where heavenly feelings stir within the heart.
It is no place, no time, no Afterlife,
'Tis now, 'tis here, it is all Time, all Place
It is ourselves! yea! Paradise is but
The small space bosomed in the heart of man,
And Ether boundless, limitless as thought,
Could not enlarge its sphere, no, no, not one
Least Tittle! for where God is, there is all!