TO IMAGINATION

    When weary with the long day's care, And earthly change from pain to pain, And lost, and ready to despair, Thy kind voice calls me back again： Oh, my true friend！ I am not lone¹, While then canst speak with such a tone！

    So hopeless is the world without； The world within I doubly prize； Thy world, where guile², and hate, and doubt, And cold suspicion never rise； Where thou, and I, and Liberty, Have undisputed sovereignty.

    What matters it, that all around Danger, and guilt³, and darkness lie, If but within our bosom's bound We hold a bright, untroubled sky, Warm with ten thousand mingled⁴ rays Of suns that know no winter days？

    Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart how vain Its cherished dreams must always be； And Truth may rudely trample⁵ down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown：

    But thou art ever there, to bring The hovering⁶ vision back, and breathe New glories o'er the blighted⁷ spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death. And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

    I trust not to thy phantom⁸ bliss⁹, Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, With never-failing thankfulness, I welcome thee, Benignant Power； Sure solacer of human cares, And sweeter hope, when hope despairs！