SIGISMUND. That is true: then let's restrain This wild rage, this fierce condition Of the mind, this proud ambition, Should we ever dream again: And we'll do so, since 'tis plain, In this world's uncertain gleam, That to live is but to dream: Man dreams what he is, and wakes Only when upon him breaks Death's mysterious morning beam. The king dreams he is a king, And in this delusive way Lives and rules with sovereign sway; All the cheers that round him ring, Born of air, on air take wing. And in ashes (mournful fate!) Death dissolves his pride and state: Who would wish a crown to take, Seeing that he must awake In the dream beyond death's gate? And the rich man dreams of gold, Gilding cares it scarce conceals, And the poor man dreams he feels Want and misery and cold. Dreams he too who rank would hold, Dreams who bears toil's rough-ribbed hands, Dreams who wrong for wrong demands, And in fine, throughout the earth, All men dream, whate'er their birth, And yet no one understands. 'Tis a dream that I in sadness Here am bound, the scorn of fate; 'Twas a dream that once a state I enjoyed of light and gladness. What is life? 'Tis but a madness. What is life? A thing that seems, A mirage that falsely gleams, Phantom joy, delusive rest, Since is life a dream at best, And even dreams themselves are dreams. * * * * * ACT THE THIRD. WITHIN THE TOWER. * * * * * SCENE I. CLARIN. In a strange enchanted tower, I, for what I know, am prisoned;* How would ignorance be punished, If for knowledge they would kill me? What a thing to die of hunger, For a man who loves good living! I compassionate myself; All will say: "I well believe it"; And it well may be believed, Because silence is a virtue Incompatible with my name Clarin, which of course forbids it. In this place my sole companions, It may safely be predicted, Are the spiders and the mice: What a pleasant nest of linnets!-- Owing to this last night's dream, My poor head I feel quite dizzy From a thousand clarionets, Shawms, and seraphines and cymbals, Crucifixes and processions, Flagellants who so well whipped them, That as up and down they went, Some even fainted as they witnessed How the blood ran down the others. I, if I the truth may whisper, Simply fainted from not eating, For I see me in this prison All day wondering how this Poland Such a 'Hungary' look exhibits, All night reading in the 'Fasti' By some half-starved poet written.** In the calendar of saints, If a new one is admitted, Then St. Secret be my patron, For I fast upon his vigil; Though it must be owned I suffer Justly for the fault committed, Since a servant to be silent Is a sacrilege most sinful. [A sound of drums and trumpets, with voices within.] *[footnote] The asonante to the end of Scene IV. is in i--e, or their vocal equivalents.