THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS, A POET'S DREAM. LONG has it been my fate to hear The slave of Mammon, with a sneer, My indolence reprove. Ah, little knows he of the care, And seeming scarce to move: For, mounted on the Poet's steed, I there my ceaseless journey speed O'er mountain, wood, and stream: And oft within a little day 'Mid comets fierce 'tis mine to stray, And wander o'er the Milky-way To catch a Poet's dream. But would the Man of Lucre know What riches from my labours flow- And who for wealth has ever pin❜d, Where every treasure he may find, And joys that never die! One night, my task diurnal done, (For I had travell'd with the Sun O'er burning sands, o'er snows) Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest; My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd; But scarce had I my pillow press'd, When thus a vision rose. Methought within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, It seem'd of sable Night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke. B There motionless I stood alone, Like some strange monument of stone Upon a barren wild ; Or like, (so solid and profound The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round) A man that's buried under ground, Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past, A voice pronounce my name: Nor long upon my ear it dwelt, And motion once again I felt Quick circling o'er my frame. Again it call'd; and then a ray, Half struck with terror and delight, Nor long I felt the blinding pain; I gaz'd with wonder new. There high a castle rear'd its head; And far below a region spread, Where every Season seem'd to shed Its own peculiar hue. |