“We always dream; the life of man’s a dream,
In which fresh tumults agitate his breast,
Till the kind hand of death unbolts the bars
Which clog the noble and aspiring soul,
Then, then we truly wake.”—Higgins.
—“Shroud thy hated light,
Thou rising sun; nor summon with such speed,
The o’erlabored world to toils of a new day;
Why, flatter’d mortals, will you wake to cares,
When sleep, in kind delusion, may divert