O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take: From something of material sublime, Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time In the dark void of night. For in the world We jostle,--but my flag is not unfurl'd On the Admiral-staff,--and so philosophise I dare not yet! Oh, never will the prize, High reason, and the love of good and ill, Be my award! Things cannot to the will Be settled, but they tease us out of thought; Or is it that imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,-- It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale, And cannot speak it: the first page I read Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed Among the breakers; 'twas a quiet eve, The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave An untumultuous fringe of silver foam Along the flat brown sand; I was at home And should have been most happy,--but I saw Too far into the sea, where every maw The greater on the less feeds evermore.-- But I saw too distinct into the core Of an eternal fierce destruction, And so from happiness I far was gone. Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day, I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, Still do I that most fierce destruction see,-- The Shark at savage prey,--the Hawk at pounce,-- The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, Ravening a worm,--Away, ye horrid moods! Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well. You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell To some Kamtschatkan Missionary Church, Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch. XLVII.--TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. Wednesday, [Teignmouth, April 8, 1818].