A Dream

Well may sleep present us fictions,Since our waking moments teemWith such fanciful convictionsAs make life itself a dream.Half our daylight faith’s a fable;Sleep disports with shadows tooSeeming in their turn as stableAs the world we wake to view.Ne’er by day did Reason’s mintGive my thoughts a clearer printOf assured reality,Than was left by Phantasy,Stamped and coloured on my sprite,In a dream of yesternight.

In a bark, methought, lone steering,I was cast on Ocean’s strife;This, ’twas whispered in my hearing,Meant the sea of life.Sad regrets from past existenceCame, like gales of chilling breath;Shadowed in the forward distanceLay the land of Death.Now seeming more, now less remote,On that dim-seen shore, methought,I beheld two hands a spaceSlow unshroud a spectre’s face;And my flesh’s hair upstood,—’Twas mine own similitude.

But my soul revived at seeingOcean, like an emerald spark,Kindle, while an air-dropt beingSmiling steered my bark.Heaven-like—yet he looked as humanAs supernal beauty can,More compassionate than womanLordly more than man.And as some sweet clarion’s breathStirs the soldier’s scorn of death—So his accents bade me brookThe spectre’s eyes of icy look,Till it shut them—turned its head,Like a beaten foe, and fled.

“Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit!That my death-hour is not come?Say, what days shall I inherit?—Tell my soul their sum.”“No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect,Trust me, would appal thee worse,Held in clearly measured prospect:—Ask not for a curse!Make not, for I overhearThine unspoken thoughts as clearAs thy mortal ear could catchThe close-brought tickings of a watch—Make not the untold requestThat’s now revolving in thy breast.

“’Tis to live again, remeasuringYouth’s years, like a scene rehearsed,In thy second life-time treasuringKnowledge from the first.Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!Life’s career so void of pain,As to wish its fitful feverNew begun again?Could experience, ten times thine,Pain from Being disentwine—Threads by Fate together spun?Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun?No, nor could thy foresight’s glance’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

“Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble—Friendship’s death-dissevered ties;Toil to grasp or miss the bubbleOf Ambition’s prize?Say thy life’s new guided actionFlowed from Virtue’s fairest springs—Still would Envy and DetractionDouble not their stings?Worth itself is but a charterTo be mankind’s distinguished martyr.”I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail!Spirit! let us onward sail,Envying, fearing, hating none—Guardian Spirit, steer me on!”

Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth!Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore!Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh!Who would not envy such as Moore to live?And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal,To us his bright career too short was given;Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soulRose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated SpainOne patriot heart) in secret shall it mournFor him!—How oft on far Corunna’s plainShall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanksIn sprightlier strains the living may inspire!Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks,Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows,Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,And Roman eagles found unconquered foes!

Joy to the band this day on Egypt’s coast,Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor,And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore!

Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand,When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,First of Britannia’s host her Highland bandGave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England hereOr fervid Erin?—he with us shall join,To pray that in eternal union dear,The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,As rocks resist the billows round their shore;Types of a race who shall to time unbornTheir country leave unconquered as of yore!

The 42nd Regiment.

Brave men who at the Trocadero fell—Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,There is a victory in dying wellFor Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain,For come what may, there shall be hearts in SpainTo honour, ay embrace your martyred lot,Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain,And looking on your graves, though trophied not,As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled—freemen castIn dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee;Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast—The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree;And short your orgies of revenge shall be,Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!Earth shudders at your victory,—for yeAre worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again—bring backThe hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen,Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;—Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;—Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! pealWith thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,To practise deeds with torturing fire and steelNo eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crimeToo proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free,Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her climeBeen winnowed by the wings of Liberty;And these even parting scatter as they fleeThoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,Opinions that shall wrench the prison-keyFrom Persecution—show her mask off-torn,And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause!Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:—No!—manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame!Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.Still in your prostrate land there shall be someProud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame.Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.