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,
The toil, the hardship that I bear,
While lolling in my elbow-chair,

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-
A DREAM is my reply.

And who for wealth has ever pin❜d,
That had a World within his mind,

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,
I suddenly awoke.

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,
Where pyramids are pil'd.

Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past,
And now I heard, as from a blast,

A voice pronounce my name:

Nor long upon my ear it dwelt,
When round me 'gan the air to melt,

And motion once again I felt

Quick circling o'er my frame.

Again it call'd; and then a ray,
That seem'd a gushing fount of day,
Across the cavern stream'd.

Half struck with terror and delight,
I hail'd the little blessed light,
And follow'd till my aching sight
An orb of darkness seem'd.

Nor long I felt the blinding pain;
For soon upon a mountain plain

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.