SLEEP AND POETRY.

"As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
"Was unto me, but why that I ne might

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Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight "[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese "Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese."

CHAUCER.

SLEEP AND POETRY.

WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer?

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
That stays one moment in an open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
More secret than a nest of nightingales?
More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
More full of visions than a high romance?

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1Ο

What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
Low murmurer of tender lullabies!

That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

But what is higher beyond thought than thee?

Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?

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Hunt (see Appendix) pronounces this the best poem in the book, with his usual excellent critical perception.

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? What is it? And to what shall I compare it?

It has a glory, and nought else can share it :
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
Chasing away all worldliness and folly;
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;
And sometimes like a gentle whispering

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Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing

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That breathes about us in the vacant air;

So that we look around with prying stare,

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning,

And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;

To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,

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That is to crown our name when life is ended.

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,

And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
And die away in ardent mutterings.

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No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
For his great Maker's presence, but must know
What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow:
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
By telling what he sees from native merit.

O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
That am not yet a glorious denizen

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Of thy wide heaven-Should I rather kneel

Upon some mountain-top until I feel

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A glowing splendour round about me hung,

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen

That am not yet a glorious denizen

Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear

The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair
Visions of all places: a bowery nook

Will be elysium-an eternal book

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying

About the leaves, and flowers-about the playing

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
And many a verse from so strange influence
That we must ever wonder how, and whence
It came. Also imaginings will hover
Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander
In happy silence, like the clear Meander

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Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,

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Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
All that was for our human senses fitted.
Then the events of this wide world I'd seize
Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
Wings to find out an immortality.

(74) In the original, meander with a small m.

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