The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

WHAT is Matter, what is Spirit?
What are the powers which they inherit?
Or how act they upon each other,
To live as Brother should—with Brother?
An Answer, clear and full, I should
Be glad to offer, if I could.
—It is a metaphysic doubt
How the mind frisks, and plays about,
And sometimes makes a motley riot,
When Morpheus keeps the body quiet;
And, by no worldly care opprest,
Our every sense is laid at rest.
No sounds then reach the deafen'd ear,
To the clos'd eye no forms appear:
Feeling, and Taste, and Smell refuse
Alike, their tributary dues.

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When Sleep has been invok'd to shed
Its opiate poppies o'er the head,
Then do strange figures oft arise,
In various forms, to Fancy's eyes;
Which from the senseless body breaks,
And in some wild vagary wakes:
Pleas'd, in Night's umbrage, to display
Caricaturas of the day.
—Now she o'erlooks the giddy steep,
Or sails along the foamy deep:
Delighted roams through Fairy bowers,
Bedeck'd with never-fading flowers;
Or bound in damp and darksome cave,
Or struggling with th'impetuous wave
—Now rais'd to pinnacles of Fame,
Or damn'd by some inglorious name:
Grasping a friend in warm embrace,
Who long has run Life's eager race;
Or following to the Tomb, with sorrow,
Those who will glad the eye to-morrow.
Sometimes we wake, from wealth and power,
To Disappointment's painful hour;

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And from the velvet couch arise,
To the flock-bed, where Sorrow lies.
From falling rock and fancied billow,
We joy to hug a real pillow;
And smile, though still the bosom beats,
To find we're safe between the sheets.

Exterior objects do not give
The cause by which such Fancies live:
No real subject can be brought
To fill the mind, or aid the thought,
When all the powers of vision lie
Beneath the lids that close the eye.
Matter, 'tis plain, as all agree,
By any Laws of Sympathy,
Cannot, with a suspended sense,
To thought or feeling make pretence:
And if the Spirit could disown
The Body's power, and act alone,
It would proceed by sober rule,
And never frisk, or play the fool,

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Nor turn the actions of the day
Into Phantasmagoria.
—Here then, I close the puzzling theme
With my faint notion of a dream;
And leave to others to express,
If I have made a lucky guess.

'Tis from the senses that the soul
Derives its power to controul
The scheme of Life: for when they sleep
It does not the least order keep,
But moves with its fantastic train,
In frolic sportings o'er the brain,
And seems to strive, with all its clatter,
To separate itself from matter.
There are machines which owe the State
Of all their movements to a weight:
If the weight moves, they all go on
Progressive, and their work is done;
But, if it stops, they either cease,
Or work confusion through the Piece.

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The clock struck eight—and, at the stroke,
Sir Simon Bullion groan'd—and 'woke.
The groan was follow'd with such sighs
As made my Lady ope her eyes:
With speed the curtain she undrew,
Of her dear Knight to take a view,
When she beheld him pale and wan,
As if he'd been a murder'd man:
But soon her fears he did beguile,
When he turn'd round, and seem'd to smile.

“I've had a dream,” Sir Simon said,
“That still affects my mind with dread;
“And if, my Love, you'll lend an ear,
“Its frightful hist'ry you shall hear.”—
My Lady, having smooth'd the bed,
In listening posture plac'd her head:
When, having given a Hem, or two,
Sir Simon did the Tale pursue.
—“I've dream'd I was—I know not where,
Nor what strange bus'ness led me there;

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But, hurried by a crowd, I thought
I saw the Portals of a Vault
Which some uncommon sight possest,
So I went in with all the rest.
The spacious Cave which met my view,
Was like a Church without a Pew.
What I saw there was wond'rous strange:
Around the place, in various range,
On ev'ry side, above, below,
In order due, a dismal show
Of sculls innumerable stood;
As if the dead from Noah's flood,
Had, with successive, constant care,
Sent all their Pericraniums there:
But, whether moderns, or of yore,
They now one solemn visage bore:
No difference now discern'd the eye—
All grinn'd in grim equality.

“Some of the curious, bustling croud
Rush'd back, while others scream'd aloud;

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But, while their terrors they betray'd,
I did not feel myself afraid:
Nay, by my side were two or three,
Who seem'd as brave and bold as me:
They took their quizzing glasses out,
Quite at their ease, and look'd about.
—Beneath the deep-roof'd vault there stood
A Figure, neither flesh nor blood;
Of horrid shape, and ghastly mien,
Such as in pictures I have seen,
To represent that foe to breath,
Distinguish'd by the name of Death.
Around there blaz'd a flaming brand,
Which, in the stalking Spectre's hand,
Wav'd, to and fro, a meteor bright,
That fill'd each dark recess with light.

“I thought, that now I wish'd to know
The meaning of this mortal show:
So ask'd the guide about the Tomb.—
Call it, he said—a Catacomb.

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But though I do not know the word,
I'll swear 'twas what I thought I heard;
And, after breakfast, I'll go look
If 'tis in Tommy's Spelling-book:
And will it not be strange, my Dear,
If in the Book it should appear,
And that I, sleeping in my Bed,
Should dream a word I never read.”
—The Figure wav'd his torch around,
And, in a voice, whose hollow sound
Did, through the echoing vaults rebound,
He bid us listen, as he read,
The awful Hist'ry of the Dead.”

“Those are the Kings who sceptres bore:
Those Sculls the Crowns Imperial wore.
—The Beauties of a former day
There grin the passing years away.
—These are the heads within whose bone
The solemn light of Wisdom shone,
And will diffuse, with Science sage,
Its radiance o'er each future age.

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—Beneath this arch, in many a row,
Valour displays its dismal show.
They were all Knights of great renown
Whom Honour cherish'd as its own:
Nay, some of them shall tell the story
Of what they did for Fame and Glory.”
—The Phantom gave three heads a stroke
With his fierce Torch, and thus they spoke.
—Said one, “I was a soldier brave,
Who found in war an early grave;
But, e'er in Honour's field I died—
I slew the Hero by my side.”
The Hero, by his side, exclaim'd,
—“'Twas my right arm your prowess tam'd:
It was my sabre's well-aim'd blow,
That laid your glittering figure low.”
“Ho,” cried a third, “pray cease your pother,
I saw you both kill one another.”—
—Thus, though no arms, or legs had they,
I thought they threaten'd an affray;
And seem'd, without alarm or dread,
To long to play the Loggerhead.

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I thought their clamour ne'er would cease:
But the Torch wav'd, and all was peace.
It seem'd most strange the sight I saw,
That heads should speak 'gainst Nature's law,
Without a Tongue,—nor move a Jaw.”

“I humbly told the Guide, that I
Was of the class of Chivalry.
But that I was a Civic Knight,
Who had much rather eat than sight.
—Turn and look up, methought he said,
At the huge Sculls above your head,
Which are so thick, they might defy
The balls of any musquetry.
Those which there meet your curious ken,
Belong'd to Knights and Aldermen,
Who to the Sword's heroic work
Preferr'd the seats of Knife and Fork;
And, as they grin, the Jaws between,
Their well-us'd, worn-out teeth are seen.—
But all these mortal remnants stood,
In such exact similitude,

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I could not see, with all my care,
If any of my friends were there.
—I then enquir'd, if no offence,
And hop'd 'twas not impertinence,
If he might tell whose fleshless face
Was to fill up an empty space,
Which seem'd so large, that I could swear,
It was preserv'd for some Lord Mayor.
He wav'd his Torch, and lost in smoke,
'Twas thus I thought the Spectre spoke.—
—That place, Sir Simon, is your due:
And shortly will be fill'd by you.—
I felt his grasp around my neck,
While the main bone it seem'd to break:
And though I dream'd I was not dead,
I thought that I had lost my head.
—Then I awoke.—What joy to hear
My Dolly snoring in my ear!
To view her—what a charming sight!
And O, th'unspeakable delight
To find, when I could thus behold her,
I had a head upon my shoulder.”

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My Lady now, with tender grace,
Calm'd his alarms in her embrace.
“I like this dream,” she said, “my dear:
'Tis a good omen—never fear.
I'm sure you cannot have forgot,
When once you dream'd that you were shot;
And then you 'woke, alarm'd and frighted:
But three weeks after you were knighted.
—I'm quite enchanted! and forebode
The prospect of great future good.
Not long a simple Knight you'll be,
And mark my certain Augury:
For, in the Spectre's flaming brand,
I see the Herald's Bloody Hand;
And soon shall read in the Gazette—
Sir Simon is a Baronet.”

“I hope, that you divine aright,”
Replied the half-recover'd Knight:
“But though my tale so lucky seems,
“I'd rather sleep without These Dreams.”