The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 40 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed On that neglected turf and quiet stone, With name no clearer than the names unknown, Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd The Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory task'd And thus he answered-" Well, I do not know 66 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; "He died before my day of Sextonship, “And I had not the digging of this grave." I know not what of honour and of light For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate remembrance from the clay, Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought Were it not that all life must end in one, Of which we are but dreamers;-as he caught As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, Thus spoke he," I believe the man of whom "You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, "Was a most famous writer in his day, "And therefore travellers step from out their way Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 43 THE DREAM. 1. 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, |