I laid me down, but not in sleep--and Memory flew away To mingle with the sounds and scenes the world had shown by day; Now listening to the lark, she stray'd across the flowery hill, Where trickles down from bowering groves the brook that turns the mill; And now she roam'd the city lanes, where human tongues are loud, And mix the lofty and the low amid the motley crowd, Where subtle-eyed philosophy oft heaves a sigh, to scan The aspiring grasp, and paltry insignificance of man! 'Mid floods of light in festal halls, with jewels rare bedight, To music's soft and syren sounds, paced damosel with knight; It seem'd as if the fiend of grief from earthly bounds was driven, For there were smiles on every cheek that spake of nought but heaven; But, from that gilded scene, I traced the revellers one by one, With sad and sunken features each, unto their chambers lone; And of that gay and smiling crowd whose bosoms leapt to joy, How many might there be, I ween'd, whom care did not annoy? Some folded up their wearied eyes to dark unhallow'd dreams-- The soldier to his scenes of blood, the merchant to his schemes: Pride, jealousy, and slighted love, robb'd woman of her rest; Revenge, deceit, and selfishness, sway'd man's unquiet breast. Some, turning to the days of youth, sigh'd o'er the sinless time Ere passion led the heart astray to folly, care, and crime; And of that dizzy multitude, from found or fancied woes, Was scarcely one whose slumbers fell like dew upon the rose! Then turn'd I to the lowly hearth, where scarcely labour brought The simplest and the coarsest meal that craving nature sought; Above, outspread a slender roof, to shield them from the rain, And their carpet was the verdure with which nature clothes the plain; Yet there the grateful housewife sat, her infant on her knee, Its small palms clasp'd within her own, as if likewise pray'd he; For ere their fingers brake the bread, from toil incessant riven, Son, sire, and matron bow'd their heads, and pour'd their thanks to Heaven. What, then, I thought, is human life, if all that thus we see Of pageantry and of parade devoid of pleasure be! If only in the conscious heart true happiness abide, How oft, alas! has wretchedness but grandeur's cloak to hide? And when upon the outward cheek a transient smile appears, We little reck how lately hath its bloom been damp'd by tears, And how the voice, whose thrillings from a light heart seem'd to rise, Throughout each sleepless watch of night gave utterance but to sighs.