OUR life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power- The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not-what they will And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind?-The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream'd Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.
I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs ;-the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing-the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young-yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, no being, but in hers: She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words: she was his sight, For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, Which colour'd all his objects ;-he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek chango tempestuously-his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother-but no more; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honour'd race.-]
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and why Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake ;-he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands and shook, as 'twere With a convulsion-then rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The Lady of his love re-enter'd there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved ;-she knew- For quickly comes such knowledge-that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man, Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better :-in her home, A thousand leagues from his,-her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, Daughters and sons of Beauty,--but behold! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be?—she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand Before an Altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which mado The Starlight of his Boyhood ;-as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then- As in that hour-a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced-and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have beca But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love;-Oh! she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls phrenzy: but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret.-Be it so.
My dream is past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in miscry.
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went-and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings-the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With nad disquietude on the dull sky,
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