Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth Finds the down pillow hard.
Cymbeline, Act iii. Sc. 6.
I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for Care-charming sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud In gentle showers; . . . sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain.
Wadsomething strange I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A moumful rustling
FROM "THE VISION OF DELIGHT."
BREAK, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud, And spread thy purple wings, Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things;
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and naught of phlegm;
And though it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odor rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music in their ear.
FROM "THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION."
As Memnon's marble harp renowned of old By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded through the warbling air Unbidden strains; e'en so did Nature's hand To certain species of external things Attune the finer organs of the mind; So the glad impulse of congenial powers, Or of sweet sound, or fair-proportioned form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through imagination's tender frame, From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul At length discloses every tuneful spring, To that harmonious movement from without, Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain Diffuses its enchantment; Fancy dreams Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, And vales of bliss; the Intellectual Power Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear, And smiles; the passions gently soothed away, Sink to divine repose, and love and joy Alone are waking; love and joy serene As airs that fan the summer. O attend, Whoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch,
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