 | Poetical Trifles |  |
11
A DREAM
“La mort rend tout égal.”
And tasted rest from all the toils of day,
A dream of fancy to my mind disclos'd
Some poor man in death, by my side repos'd:
With unrelenting pride, I sternly said,
“Wretch! think not here to lay thy vulgar head,
Nor dare presume, with such insolence more,
To mix the high with low, the rich with poor.”
“Wretch, indeed!” with just anger he replied,
“Elsewhere such wretches seek, thyself deride:
All here are equal, none are left behind,
I, on my dunghill, thou, on thine reclin'd.”
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