“ WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings—
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?"
“ Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far

From its own country, and forgive the strings."
A simple answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art

Divine of words quickening insensate things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless meu
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ;
Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then
That the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?

XI.

AERIAL ROCK—whose solitary brow

From this low threshold daily meets my sight;
When I step forth to hail the morning light;
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell-how
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?
-By planting on thy naked head the crest
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme!
That doth presume no more than to supply
the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.

A

grace

Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a gleam Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.

XII.

TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free..

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above

Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no ;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child :
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:

O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

i

!

XIII.

TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Ң

Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

Like to a breeze from heaven.

Shall I alone.

I surely not a man ungently made,

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

XIV.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet I lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

trees;

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear-mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health.