LINES.
I live the thrall of visions! in each dream
That comes my soul in fancy’s hues to steep,
The illusion bright reality I deem,
Smile in its joys—in its mock sorrows weep.
When comes the waking hour of thought, to give
My spirit back to reason, and dispel
The phantoms frail its folly could believe?
Ah! not in poesy alone doth dwell
That charm fantastic! but whate’er may seem
Truth in this being vain—or hope or rest,
Is falsehood all—life is a fevered dream!
A pageant wild, where none are truly blest.