Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, But what is all, to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's Healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore! ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, And singing, and loving—all come back together. THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, |