Poems (Gould, 1833)/What is This

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WHAT IS THIS?
Am I dreaming? what is this?Is it anguish?—is it bliss?'T is a mingling of the twain;Doubtful joy, and certain pain;Feeble gleams of morning lightPlaying through the shades of night!Ah! the same unconscious wingWafts the honey and the sting!
Quickly passing from the viewOf the mind, that's fleeting too,What a vast and varied crowd!Bridal vesture; funeral shroud;Robes of honor; weeds of wo;Oh! the wearers, how they go!Scarce a glimpse of each is caught,Ere the vision turns to nought.
Well! and is there nothing more,When the busy dream is o'er?Ay! 'tis truth the waking brings;'T is a world of real things:—Nothing transient, nothing mixed;All is clear, and all is fixed.Be it anguish, be it bliss,'T is no changing scene, like this!
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Then, thou slumbering soul, awake!Let these earthly baubles break,Let the mildew blight the tree!Here's no fruit to nourish thee.Up! and from the ruins haste;Look not back upon the waste!Up! and fasten on the prizeThat is offered from the skies!
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