All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;
E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,
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The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again;
And all these wayward wanderings of my youth
Fly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.
With fiction, then, does real joy reside,
And is our reason the delusive guide?
Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing,
Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing?