Glasgow Weekly Times

DREAMS.
The dreams that busy fancy weaves
In midnight's silent hour,
When wearied mind or frame receives
From sleep new strength and power,
Though oft as fleeting as the sail
Upon the sea of fairy tale,
Or bright and changing as the lights
That sparkle in the Arabian nights,
Prove thought, tho' uncontrolled by will,
Is toiling on and busy still.
It mounts on airy wing,
To where wild comets widely stray
And shining planets swing—
Again it seeks the depths below
Where groves of snowy coral grow,
Where mermaids wander thro' the deep
And lull the watcher into sleep,
And bear him off to caves of gold
Beneath the waves so blue and cold.
Yet oftener still, 'tis like some wind
That scarcely felt doth play,
That scarcely noticed, leads the mind
To regions far away—
A ray of light, whose gentle beam
Doth lure us down Time's rapid stream
The murmur of a rose-lipped shell
Upon Time's shore, yet near the swell
Of that unknown and boundless sea
We're taught to call eternity.
Yet, whether mournful, dark and sad,
Or playful, gay and fair,
Though buoyed with ten thousand hopes
Or sunk full low with care.
Though bright with joys the picture glows,
Or peopled with life's countless woes,
The visions of the silent night
That pass before our spirit's sight,
Must teach us still, though weak and blind
The Immortality of Mind.