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 :

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Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Come, blesséd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! W. WORDSWORTH.

267

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our buglessang truce,forthe night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 4 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ;

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: "Twas autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

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In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 15 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part;

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My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And iny wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. Stay-stay with us !—rest !—thou art weary and worn!

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. T. CAMPBELL.

268

A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in
dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets;

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Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets

Like a child, half in tenderness and mirthIts mother's face with heaven's collected tears, 15 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

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With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

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There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank
with white,

And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

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Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it-O! to Whom?
P. B. SHELLEY.

269

THE INNER VISION

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone

Of meditation, slipping in between

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

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If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Thought and Love companions of our way—

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Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,— The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

270

W. WORDSWORTH

THE REALM OF FANCY

Ever let the Fancy roam!
Pleasure never is at home :

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ;

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Then let wingéd Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her :
Open wide the mind's cage-door,

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming:
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;

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15

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled

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From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ;

When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.

-Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,

Fancy, high-commission'd :—send her !
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;

She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May

From dewy sward or thorny spray ;
All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it ;-thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;

Rustle of the reapéd corn;

And in the same moment-hark!

Sweet birds antheming the morn :

"Tis the early April lark,

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Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearléd with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celléd sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;

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Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm;

Acorns ripe down-pattering

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While the autumn breezes sing.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose;

Everything is spoilt by use:

Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid

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Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft ?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let then wingéd Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;

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