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 The toil of struggling through it, and atone For many a long, sad night and weary day. They come upon the mind like some wild air Of distant music, when we know not where,

Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power, Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, Oft dreamed of, beckons near—its rose-wreathed bower, And cloudless skies before us: we become Changed on the instant—all gold leaf and gilding; This is, in vulgar phrase, called "castle building."

But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon; 'tis vain To bid them linger longer, or to ask On what day they intend to call again; And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task, Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure, To find some means to summon them at pleasure.

There certainly are powers of doing this, In some degree at least—for instance, drinking. Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss, And keep the head a little time from thinking