THE DREAMER.
“There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind; a thousand
accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness
and the secret inscription on the mind; but alike, whether
veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever.”
English Opium-Eater.
“Thou hast been call'd, O Sleep! the friend of woe,
But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so.”
Southey.
Peace to thy dreams!—thou art slumbering now,
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow;
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest,
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd fare-well.
Peace!—the sad memories that through the day
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow'd thee as winds bow the willow's head,
The yearnings for faces and voices gone—
All are forgotten!—Sleep on, sleep on!
Are they forgotten?—It is not so!
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe.
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over wavy grass:
Tremblest thou, Dreamer?—O love and grief!
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf!
On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre ere its chords are still;
On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye,
There's a large tear gathering heavily;
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd—
Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest!
It is Thought at work amidst buried hours
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers.—
Oh! we bear within us mysterious things;
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom'd springs;
And Passion—those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still.
Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear,
They find no fount of oblivion here!
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath—
How know we if under the wings of death?
