Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/317



the mind, so full of mystery, Even in its passive hours. Behold it roam, With unseal'd eye and wide unfolded wing, While the tir'd body sleeps. Immortal guest! Our earthly nature bows itself to thee, Pressing its ear of flesh unto the sigh Of thy perturbed visions, if perchance It hear some murmur of thy birth divine, Thy deathless heritage. Ah! dreams are dear To those whom waking life hath surfeited With dull monotony. When the long day Wends to its close, and stealthy evening steals, Like some lean miser, greedily to snatch Hope's wreath, that morning gave, is it not sweet To close our eyelids, and to find the rose That hides no thorn, the gold that knows no rust, Spreading where'er we tread?—Is it not sweet To 'scape from stern reality, and glide Where'er wild fancy marks her fairy way