WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF DREAMS.

This life 's a dream--so all have thought,

Philosophers and poets too,

And rhyme and reason both have wrought,

To prove what most have felt is true.

The warrior's dream 's a fiery chaos,

For glory ever flying on;

The statesman's an unceasing race,

Full often lost and seldom won.

The merchant dreams of loss and gain,

And gold that never brings content;

The student's a dull dream of pain,

'Midst mouldered books and hours misspent.

The lover in his airy hall

Has joy-dreams ever in his view,

And, though the falsest of them all,

His dream perhaps is sweetest too.

The poet's dream 's a dream of dreams,

Of phantoms seen and passed away,

Like dancing moats in sunny beams

Which shine but while they cross the ray.

Yes, all's a dream, but who would part

With one fond vision fancy knows,

One bright delusion of the heart

For all that waking reason shows?

Who'd quell the notes Hope gaily sings,

Because they're tuned so witchingly?

Who'd pluck Imagination's wings,

Because they bear her up too high?

Let those who would so close this page,

Where many dreams recorded lie;

It ne'er was meant to please the sage,

But feeling's heart and fancy's eye.