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 light
Playing through the shades of night!
Ah! the same unconscious wing
Wafts the honey and the sting!

Quickly passing from the view
Of 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? 't is 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!

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 prize,
That is offered from the skies!