otation from Sir
Richard Phillips' unfinished _Personal Tour through the United Kingdom_,
published in the _Mirror_, 1828, vol. xii. p. 286; _Abbotsford and
Newstead Abbey_, by Washington Irving, 1835, p. 191, _seq._; _The House
and Grave of Byron_, 1855; and an article in _Lippincott's Magazine_,
1876, vol. xviii. pp. 637, _seq._

THE DREAM

I.

Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of Joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being;[35] they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 10
And look like heralds of Eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,--they speak
Like Sibyls of the future; they have power--
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not--what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,[36]
The dread of vanished shadows--Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow?--What are they?
Creations of the mind?--The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own 20
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.[37]
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep--for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.[38]

II.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs;--the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing--the one on all that was beneath 40
Fair as herse