XII.

ΤΟ 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.

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!
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 thought of all by turns, and yet I lie

Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies

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

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!

XV.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.

THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring,
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown

Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow:

I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!

VOL. III.

XVI.

66

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN THE COMPLETE ANGLER."

WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,

Shall live thy name, meek Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverent watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.

O, nobly versed in simple discipline—

Who found'st the longest summer day too short,
To thy loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,

Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook—

Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,

Are cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;

And the fresh meads-where flowed, from every nook

Of thy full bosom, gladsome Piety!