 | The forest minstrel |  |
A DREAM.
And lo, I lay upon the bed of pain,
In bitter agony; a torturing fire
Of fever scorched my brain and dimmed mine eyes,
Though on my forehead lay big icy drops;
I would have wiped them, and I raised my hand,
But it was powerless, white, and cold as snow.
As painfully I felt life's crimson tides
Curdling along their channels. Heavily
My heart was beating, and my tongue lay cold
And languid in the hall of melody.
My soul was suffocating, and I felt
Impatience of the close and narrow room,
That seemed to shut out the sweet breath of life.
My children wept all wildly round my bed,
With broken supplication unto God,
That he would spare a life so dear to them;
But I was weary of it, and my prayer,
Wrung out by agony, was, “Let me rest!”
To struggle with him, and the conqueror pressed
His icy hand upon my shuddering heart,
And tore away the life-strings.
A spiritual essence on the air,—
A balm, a beauty, an ecstatic bliss,
Living in its own wealth of blessedness.
Held me a prisoner. Where were now the pangs
That wrung its nerves? Oh mystery of death!
All calmly beautiful in its pale sleep,
It lay before me. Death, which lay concealed
In its first germ, which all its weary life
Had dwelt within it, gnawing at its heart,
And thrilling it with pangs, and dire disease,
And slow decay, weakness, anxiety,
And tears, and sighing, so that all its joys
Were mixed with agony;—Death now was dead;
And that calm clay and the immortal mind
Were freed from him for ever.
Then I looked
Upon my weepers, in their bitterness
Clinging round that cold clay, or sobbing deep
Upon each other's neck; and yet I felt
No sympathy; not for my tenderest child;
But said, with placid joy, “If ye could know
What peace, what bliss is mine, ye would not weep.”
Bearing me upward with its ravishment
Through the ethereal ocean, till at length
I rose above this cloudy atmosphere,
To the celestial radiance of God's day;
And this great world rolled from beneath my feet,
With mighty rushing sound of melody
Along its shining path; apparent now
It marched along. In rapturous amaze
I looked upon the shining hosts of worlds,
The infinitely vast and beautiful
Creations of Jehovah. Every where
Wheeled the bright orbs, each floating in its own
Peculiar atmosphere of streaming light,
And uttering unto God a glorious voice.
My being was all wonder and delight,
As floating in this boundless wilderness
Of rolling orbs, flashing their wings of flame,
And speeding on their errands, I drank in
The power and glory of Omnipotence.
And there were groups of spirits, radiant
With perfect loveliness, moving in bands,
Or resting on their broad and silvery wings,
In pure communion. Every perfect face
Illumed with love and dazzling with delight;
And as I passed they waved their glittering hands,
And bade me speed my way, in words that came
In swells of fragrant music. Oh, the bliss
That filled my being! Was there aught on earth
That could have won me to assume again
My mortal prison, with its painful life
Of weakness and pollution. What to me
Were its affections, with their doubts and fears,
Their thrilling joys, and bitter agonies?
I had escaped them, and I was all bliss.
Onward I passed—and now the atmosphere
Became a crimson glory, every where
Radiant with angel faces and bright forms,
That seemed the glowing vapours of perfume
From myriad censers, burning heavenly balm,
And breathing, with the incense, holy hymns
Of sweetness ravishing.
“Speed! sister, speed!”
I heard sweet voices singing—“Speed thy course
To Him who has redeemed thee from the earth,
To whom be glory!” And the wide immense
Re-echoed “Glory! Glory!” and a flood
Of spirit-dazzling glory was revealed,
And such an ecstacy of pure delight
Burst on my spirit, that I joined the hymn,
And with a shout of “Glory!” broke the spell
Of that delightful visionary sleep,
And the bright dream departed.
The above Dream was written (I think) in the spring of 1842, and sent to a newspaper for publication. The editor kept it, and published a prose article, entitled, Dr. Watts' Dream, and the week after gave mine; whether he thought that my Dream was a plagiarism on the Doctor's, or only wished to have it so appear, I never inquired. However, I positively assert that when I wrote my Dream I had never seen or heard of Dr. Watts', and had no idea that any such composition was in existence. And yet there is between the two dreams a most striking similarity—sufficient to establish a belief in a candid mind that one was only a different version of the other. Thus, no doubt, many authors are convicted of plagiarism. That the same objects or circumstances, should awaken the same feelings and images in minds similarly constituted, is by no means wonderful; but that imagination should present scenes purely ideal, in such striking sameness of contour and colouring to different minds, is certainly a wonder, and is incomprehensible.—It is nevertheless, in the present instance, solemnly true—I have never imitated any writer, male or female,—and if ever in my wanderings beside the sweet waters, I have picked up shells or gathered flowers, similar to those appropriated by any who have preceded me; I certainly did not steal them from their cabinet, but found them myself, and they are mine.
| The forest minstrel | |