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Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,

My sudden adoration, my great love!

1818.

BALLAD.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI,

! I.

WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

11.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

III.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

IV.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

V.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

VI.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
"I love thee true!"

VIII.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

IX.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd-ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

X.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried" La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

XI.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

XII.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

FRAGMENTS.

TO REYNOLDS.

"I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of idleness. I have not read any books-the morning said I was right. I had no idea but of the morning, and the Thrush said I was right, seeming to say-(Letter to Reynolds, Feb. 1818)

THOU whose face hath felt the Winter's

[graphic]

wind,

Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds
hung in mist

And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars!
To thee the spring will be a harvest time.
O thou whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phoebus was away!
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge. I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge! I have none,
And yet the evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.

HERE'S the Poet? show him! show

him,

Muses nine! that I may know him.
Tis the man who with a man

Is an equal, be he King,

Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.

MODERN LOVE.

ND what is Love? It is a doll, dress'd up For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;

A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on

Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,

And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;

Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,

And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.

Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,

If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies

Should be more common than the growth of weeds
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
'That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

FRAGMENT OF "THE CASTLE

BUILDER."

O-NIGHT I'll have my friar-let me think

About my room,-I'll have it in the
pink;

It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
Should look thro' four large windows, and display
Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way,
Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor;
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
To see what else the moon alone can show;
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
My terrace is well bower'd with oranges.
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
A guitar-ribbon and a lady's glove
Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love;

A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair;
A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon
A glorious folio of Anacreon;

A skull upon a mat of roses lying,
Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
Of passion-flower;-just in time there sails

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