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To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

"Ligeia! wherever

Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever

Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes

In a dreamy sleep,
But the strains still arise

Which thy vigilance keep;
The sound of the rain

Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again

In the rhythm of the shower;
The murmur that springs *

From the growing of grass—
Are the music of things,

But are modell'd, alas!
Away, then, my dearest,

Oh! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest

Beneath the moon-ray,—

* I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain, and quote from memory:—" The verie essence and, as it were, springeheade and origine of all music is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."

To lone lake that smiles,

In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles

That enjewel its breast,
Where wild flowers, creeping,

Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping

Full many a maid;
Some have left the cool glade, and

Have slept with the bee ; *
Arouse them, my maiden,

On moorland and lea—
Go! breathe on their slumber,

All softly in ear,
The musical number

They slumber'd to hear:
For what can awaken

An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken

Beneath the cold moon,

• The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.

The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro, in whose mouth I admired its effect:—

"Oh, were there an island,
Though ever so wild,
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguiled," <fec.

As the spell which no slumber

Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number

Which lull'd him to rest?"

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,

A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean through,

Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—

Seraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light

That fell, refracted, through thy bounds afar,

O Death! from eye of God upon that star:

Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—

Sweet was that error—ev'n with us the breath

Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—

To them 'twere the simoom, and would destroy.

For what (to them) availeth it to know

That Truth is Falsehood, or that Bliss is Woe?

Sweet was their death: with them to die was rife

With the last ecstasy of satiate life;

Beyond that death no immortality,

But sleep that pondereth, and is not " to be :"

And there—oh, may my weary spirit dwell!

Apart from heaven's Eternity—and yet how far from

hell." What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?

* With the Arabians there "is a medium between heaven and hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not

But two: they fell—for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—
Oh! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen, 'mid "tears of perfect
moan."*

He was a goodly spirit, he who fell:
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well—
A gazer on the lights that shine above—
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair;

attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose
to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
"Un no rompido sueno—
Un dia puro—allegre—libre
Quiera—

Libre de amor—de zelo—
De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo."

Luis Ponce De Leon. Sorrow is not excluded from " Al Aaraaf," but it is that sortrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures,—the price of which, to those souls who make choice of Al Aaraaf as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation. * "There be tears of perfect moan

Wept for thee in Helicon."—Milton.

And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo;
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love, his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her, but ever then
It trembled to the orb of Earth again.

"Ianthe, dearest, see 1 how dim that ray!

How lovely 'tis to look so far away!

She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve

I left her gorgeous halls, nor mourn'd to leave

That eve—that eve—I should remember well,

The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos with a spell

On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall

Wherein I sat, and on the draperied wall,

And on my eyelids—oh, the heavy light!

How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!

On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran

With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:

But, oh, that light!—I slumber'd. Death the

while
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle,
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept, or knew that he was there.

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