To whom the Youth: Our active Fancy seems
For ever roving, roving most in Dreams:
For then the Soul, disburden'd of her Load,
Soars high, and grows prophetic, like a God;
Minds Things when past, as present to our View;
And, by Allusion, knows the future too.
Thus, when to Sleep your musing Head reclin'd,
She kept our Ev'ning Converse in her Mind;
Reflected on the Joys my Country yields,
Joys, sweet as those in yonder azure Fields;
Till, soaring higher, striving to discern
Her hidden Fate, and future Fortune learn,
Heav'n shew'd her something like this Morning Chace,
By trembling Slaves, who fled their Tyrant's Face;
Perhaps, to warn us timely from our Bed;
For, O my dear AMANDA! had we stay'd,
I had not liv'd to tell this mystic Tale,
Nor you, to hear the Secrets I reveal —
But let us to my happy Country steer,
Nor longer wait impending Ruin here.