Classic Poem

Seated at last near Tavy's silver stream,
Sleep seiz'd our shepherd; and in sleep a dream
Show'd him Marina all bedew'd with tears:
Pale as the lily of the field appears,
When the unkiss'd morn from the mountains' tops
Sees the sweet flow'rs distil their silver drops.
She seem'd to take him by the hand and say:
O Celadyne, this, this is not the way
To recompense the wrong which thou hast done
And I have pardon'd, since it was begun
To exercise my virtue; I am thine
More than I wish'd, or thou canst now divine.
Seek out the aged Lama, by whose skill
Thou may'st our fortunes know, and what the will
Of fate is in thy future. This she spoke,
And seem'd to kiss him, wherewith he awoke, —
And missing what (in thought) his sleep had gain'd,
He mus'd, sigh'd, wept, and lastly thus complain'd:
Vain dreams, forbear! ye but deceivers be,
For as in flatt'ring glasses women see
More beauty than possess'd: so I in you
Have all I can desire, but nothing true.
Who would be rich, to be so but an hour,
Eats a sweet fruit to relish more the sour.
If but to lose again we things possess,
Ne'er to be happy is a happiness.
Men walking in the pitchy shades of night
Can keep their certain way; but if a light
O'ertake and leave them, they are blinded more,
And doubtful go that went secure before.
For this (though hardly) I have oft forborne
To see her face, fair as the rosy morn;
Yet mine own thoughts in night such traitors be,
That they betray me to that misery.
Then think no more of her — as soon I may
Command the sun to rob us of a day,
Or with a net repel a liquid stream,
As lose such thoughts, or hinder but a dream.
The lightsome air as eas'ly hinder can
A glass to take the form of any man
That stands before it, as or time or place
Can draw a veil between me and her face.
Yet, by such thoughts my torments hourly thrive;
For (as a pris'ner by his perspective)
By them I am inform'd of what I want;
I envy now none but the ignorant.
He that ne'er saw her (O, too happy wight!)
Is one born blind that knows no want of light;
He that ne'er kiss'd her lips, yet sees her eyes,
Lives, while he lives so, still in paradise;
But if he taste those sweets as hapless I,
He knows his want, and meets his misery.
An Indian rude that never heard one sing
A heav'nly sonnet to a silver string,
Nor other sounds, but what confused herds
In pathless deserts make, or brooks or birds,
Should he hear one the sweet pandora touch,
And lose his hearing straight; he would as much
Lament his knowledge as do I my chance,
And wish he still had liv'd in ignorance.
I am that Indian; and my soothing dreams
In thirst have brought me but to painted streams,
Which not allay, but more increase desire:
A man, near frozen with December's ire,
Hath, from a heap of glowworms, as much ease
As I can ever have by dreams as these.
O leave me then! and strongest memory
Keep still with those that promise-breakers be,
Go, bid the debtor mind his payment day,
Or help the ignorant devout to say
Prayers they understand not; lead the blind,
And bid ingrateful wretches call to mind
Their benefactors; and if Virtue be
(As still she is) trod on by misery,
Show her the rich, that they may free her want,
And leave to nurse the fawning sycophant;
Or, if thou see fair honour careless lie,
Without a tomb for after memory,
Dwell by the grave, and teach all those that pass
To imitate, by showing who it was,
This way, Remembrance, thou may'st do some good,
And have due thanks; but he that understood
The throes thou bring'st on me, would say I miss
The sleep of him that did the pale moon kiss,
And that it were a blessing thrown on me,
Sometimes to have the hated lethargy.
Then, dark Forgetfulness, that only art
The friend of lunatics, seize on that part
Of memory which hourly shows her me!
Or suffer still her waking fantasy,
Even at the instant when I dream of her,
To dream the like of me! so shall we err
In pleasure's endless maze without offence,
And both connex as souls in innocence.