 | Young Arthur |  |
O, sleep, who, wrapp'd in the veil of shade,
And shod with film, dost, trackless, steal
On the weary mind, with the balmy aid
Before which the feverish fancies fade,
When thy downy fingers the wild pulse feel,
And it's throbs by their magic touch are stay'd;
My form in thy cherishing arms enclose,
My fancy sooth and my cares compose,
And smooth my pillow, confine my mind
In thy silken trammels, which sorrow bind;
And give me, O, give me peace again.
O'er me transfuse in showers unseen
The dews which the night breezes brush from the flow'r
Which grows where the Crescent displays its sheen;
And give my soul to the shadowy hour,
When fancy sports in her wildest play,
And with wing-footed freedom the energies stray;
And the mind's a king, and the world it's throne,
And a fairy phantasy forms the zone;
And give me to float on the ambient air,
And give me to glide o'er the heaving wave,
Where sails Young Allan, the gentle and brave;
Round the bark to hover which bore him there;
And the winds I'll woo that they kindly blow,
And the waves I'll kiss that they gently flow;
It's rocking I'll stay, and its helm I'll guide,
And 'round it with guardian care I'll glide:
O, cruel the bark that my lover has borne,
But the power that impell'd it was Edith's scorn.
And shod with film, dost, trackless, steal
On the weary mind, with the balmy aid
Before which the feverish fancies fade,
When thy downy fingers the wild pulse feel,
And it's throbs by their magic touch are stay'd;
My form in thy cherishing arms enclose,
My fancy sooth and my cares compose,
And smooth my pillow, confine my mind
In thy silken trammels, which sorrow bind;
And give me, O, give me peace again.
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The dews which the night breezes brush from the flow'r
Which grows where the Crescent displays its sheen;
And give my soul to the shadowy hour,
When fancy sports in her wildest play,
And with wing-footed freedom the energies stray;
And the mind's a king, and the world it's throne,
And a fairy phantasy forms the zone;
And give me to float on the ambient air,
And give me to glide o'er the heaving wave,
Where sails Young Allan, the gentle and brave;
Round the bark to hover which bore him there;
And the winds I'll woo that they kindly blow,
And the waves I'll kiss that they gently flow;
It's rocking I'll stay, and its helm I'll guide,
And 'round it with guardian care I'll glide:
O, cruel the bark that my lover has borne,
But the power that impell'd it was Edith's scorn.
| Young Arthur | |