Poems (Charlotte Allen)/Soliloquy on Dreams
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SOLILOQUY ON DREAMS.
'T was but a dream;
I would there were no dreams, for 't is painful
When awaked, to find them mere delusion,
After the senses have been revelling
In elysian scenes, where all seemed wrapt in
Sweet reality, a happy prelude
To more perfect bliss.
Who hath not dreamed?
And when the witching spell was broke that
Bound the soul in its enchanting fetters
Sighed, nay, almost wept to find what looked so
Real, was but illusion, cheating the
Mind's bright vision.
Dreams are mental meteors,
Of the fitful brain, flashing athwart its
Ever busy surface, when reason sleeps.
And is this wond'rous working of the mind
Influenced by external circumstance?
When touched with Morpheus' wand, a change comes
Over us, and we gently pass from cold
Reality, to the strange but pleasing
Phantasies of ideality; and
Ofttimes, what most enchains the mind in
Waking hours, leaves its lurking place when sleep
Approaches, yielding its throne to scenes and
Beings that we scarcely dared to think of
When awake, fearing to indulge the soul
Too deeply in imagined pleasures, that
Sober reason tells us, ne'er will occur,
However much desired.
The intellect
Brooks no control; free as the mountain air
'T is ever on the wing, seeking something
New, felt, but undefined, as on it wends
Its trackless way, viewing with double ken
The airy phantoms, that in the mental
Atmosphere have their existence.
Can mind
Be chained? can we concentrate ideas
Into one focus, and there confine them—
To please our fancy? will they not escape
From thraldom, bidding defiance to our
Feeble efforts to restrain them? Ofttimes
When we deemed the roving thought was fairly
Caught and fastened, and we were prepared
To have a feast of thinking, a banquet of
The soul, ere we could wink, 't was gone, flying
Through boundless space.
There are those who hold much
Faith in dreams, and deem them ominous of
Good or ill, according to the hue they
Wear; for myself, I have no faith in
Aught on earth; and though I deal in flights of
Fancy, and revel in ecstatic realms
Of fondest imagery, where airy sprites
And fairy elves extend their witching charms
To tempt us mortals from the plain pathway
Of real life, yet, I would not always
Dwell 'mid those bright bowers, but inhale
The changing elements of this world's facts:
Bitter with the sweet, thorns with the flowers,
And clouds and sunshine mingled with the showers.
I would there were no dreams, for 't is painful
When awaked, to find them mere delusion,
After the senses have been revelling
In elysian scenes, where all seemed wrapt in
Sweet reality, a happy prelude
To more perfect bliss.
Who hath not dreamed?
And when the witching spell was broke that
Bound the soul in its enchanting fetters
Sighed, nay, almost wept to find what looked so
Real, was but illusion, cheating the
Mind's bright vision.
Dreams are mental meteors,
Of the fitful brain, flashing athwart its
Ever busy surface, when reason sleeps.
And is this wond'rous working of the mind
Influenced by external circumstance?
When touched with Morpheus' wand, a change comes
Over us, and we gently pass from cold
Reality, to the strange but pleasing
Phantasies of ideality; and
Ofttimes, what most enchains the mind in
Waking hours, leaves its lurking place when sleep
Approaches, yielding its throne to scenes and
Beings that we scarcely dared to think of
When awake, fearing to indulge the soul
Too deeply in imagined pleasures, that
Sober reason tells us, ne'er will occur,
However much desired.
The intellect
Brooks no control; free as the mountain air
'T is ever on the wing, seeking something
New, felt, but undefined, as on it wends
Its trackless way, viewing with double ken
The airy phantoms, that in the mental
Atmosphere have their existence.
Can mind
Be chained? can we concentrate ideas
Into one focus, and there confine them—
To please our fancy? will they not escape
From thraldom, bidding defiance to our
Feeble efforts to restrain them? Ofttimes
When we deemed the roving thought was fairly
Caught and fastened, and we were prepared
To have a feast of thinking, a banquet of
The soul, ere we could wink, 't was gone, flying
Through boundless space.
There are those who hold much
Faith in dreams, and deem them ominous of
Good or ill, according to the hue they
Wear; for myself, I have no faith in
Aught on earth; and though I deal in flights of
Fancy, and revel in ecstatic realms
Of fondest imagery, where airy sprites
And fairy elves extend their witching charms
To tempt us mortals from the plain pathway
Of real life, yet, I would not always
Dwell 'mid those bright bowers, but inhale
The changing elements of this world's facts:
Bitter with the sweet, thorns with the flowers,
And clouds and sunshine mingled with the showers.