William Ray (1771–1826)

DO troubles overwhelm thy soul,

Like billows of the ocean,

That o’er the shipwreck’d victim roll,

In terrible commotion;

Seize bold Imagination’s wing,

And soar to heaven, so seeming,

Or reign a potentate and king—

’T is all obtain’d by—dreaming.

Do pain and poverty unite

To rob thee of all pleasure—

Like thieves break in at dead of night,

And steal away thy treasure,

The treasure of a tranquil mind

With joy and rapture teeming,

Seek—seek, my friend, and thou shalt find

More solid joy in—dreaming.

For let the world still darker frown

Than night-clouds on creation,

And shower its tenfold vengeance down,

Its wrath and indignation,

On this devoted head of mine,

One star is still left gleaming,

One light that will for ever shine—

The hope—the bliss of dreaming.

The world can neither give nor take

Away these mental riches;

They ’re mine—and sleeping or awake,

I love the little witches;

They charm my senses to repose,

While cares and wants are screaming

My eyes and ears, to misery close,

And give me peace in—dreaming.

Whene’er I lay me down to rest,

With toils and sorrows weary—

A heart most feelingly distress’d,

And all on earth looks dreary;

Aerial powers around me throng,

With light and glory beaming,

And waft my raptured soul along

The paradise of—dreaming.

And oft as pensively I walk

In solitary places,

I hear celestial spirits talk,

And think I see their faces;

They bid me leave all earthly things,

While tears of grief are streaming—

I mount Imagination’s wings,

And find my heaven in—dreaming.

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