CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

YEAR

I. THE MAGIC SLEEP

I

WEAR after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet,

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider'd coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm

With bracelets of the diamond bright:

Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart.

The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,

That lie upon her charmed heart.

She sleeps on either hand upswells

The gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd:

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

II. THE FAIRY PRINCE'S ARRIVAL

I

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,

There rose a noise of striking clocks,
And feet that ran and doors that clapt,
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;
A fuller light illumin’d all,

A breeze through all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,
And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,
The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,
The fire shot up, the martin flew,

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,
The maid and page renew'd their strife,
The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,
And all the long pent stream of life
Dash'd downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these the king awoke,
And in his chair himself uprear'd,

And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 'By holy rood, a royal beard!

How say you? we have slept, my lords.
My beard has grown into my lap.'
The barons swore, with many words,
'T was but an after-dinner's nap.

4

'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still My joints are something stiff or so.

My Lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mention'd half an hour ago ?'
The chancellor sedate and vain

In courteous words return'd reply:
But dallied with his golden chain,
And, smiling, put the question by.

A. Tennyson

CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

UP! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!

To the meadows trip away.

'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

S. T. Coleridge

CLXVI

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

THE

HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever were still.

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron

A

CLXVII

THE WIDOW BIRD

WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground,

And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P. B. Shelley

CLXVIII

DORA

ITH farmer Allan at the farm abode

WITH

William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day

When Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son,

I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.