Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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MORNING SLEEP.
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127
MORNING SLEEP.
Another day hath dawned
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Meanwhile, through the oblivion of the night
The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;
And now the gradual sun begins to throw
Its slanting glory on the heads of trees,
And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,
And shakes its dewy wings.
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Meanwhile, through the oblivion of the night
The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;
And now the gradual sun begins to throw
Its slanting glory on the heads of trees,
And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,
And shakes its dewy wings.
A blessed gift
Unto the weary hath been mine to-night—
Slumber unbroken: now it floats away;
But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
The head thus comfortably posed, the eyes
In a continual dawning, mingling lights
And darks with vagrant fantasies, one hour,
Yet for another hour? I will not break
The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
I see the forms of immortalities.
Verily, soon enough the labouring day,
With its necessitous unmusical calls,
Will force the indolent conscience into life.
Unto the weary hath been mine to-night—
Slumber unbroken: now it floats away;
But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
The head thus comfortably posed, the eyes
In a continual dawning, mingling lights
And darks with vagrant fantasies, one hour,
Yet for another hour? I will not break
The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
I see the forms of immortalities.
Verily, soon enough the labouring day,
128
Will force the indolent conscience into life.
The tiresome moth upon the window-panes
Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr
The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without
Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze
Toward the light blowing. To an Eastern vale
That light may now be waning, and across
The tall reeds by the Ganges lotus-paved,
Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.
The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,
All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,
Burning like molten gold. A red canoe
Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound
Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids
Whose zoneless bosoms swell on the rich air;
A lamp is in each hand, each lamp a boat
To take the chance, or sink or swim, such rite
Of love-portent they try, and such may see
Ibis or emu from their cocoa nooks,
What time the granite sentinels that watch
The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first
Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend
Their august lineaments; what time Haroun
Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew
He was the Caliph who knocked soberly
By Giafar's hand at their gates, shut betimes;
What time Prince Assad sat on the high hill
'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying
For his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,
Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave
And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,
And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let
Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness
Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time
And bodily weight are for the wakeful only,
Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,
Floating poised happily in mid-air, bathed
In a sustaining halo, soft and warm,
Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven
Its own wide home alike; earth far below
Fading still further, further; towers and towns
Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged,
And tedious travellers within iron cars;
Its rivers, and its fields with labouring hinds,
To whose raised eyes, as, stretched upon the sward,
They may enjoy some intervals of rest,
That little cloud appears scarce worth a thought.
There is an old and memorable tale
Of some sound sleeper being borne away
By banded faeries in the mottled hour,
Before the cock-crow, through unknown weird woods
And nameless forests, where the boughs and roots
Opened before him, closed behind; thenceforth
A wise man lived he all unchanged by years.
Perchance again these fairies may return,
And evermore shall I remain as now—
A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!—
Wandering no more, there are no faeries now;
I hear domestic voices on the stair!
Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr
The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without
Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze
Toward the light blowing. To an Eastern vale
That light may now be waning, and across
The tall reeds by the Ganges lotus-paved,
Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.
The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,
All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,
Burning like molten gold. A red canoe
Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound
Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids
Whose zoneless bosoms swell on the rich air;
A lamp is in each hand, each lamp a boat
To take the chance, or sink or swim, such rite
Of love-portent they try, and such may see
Ibis or emu from their cocoa nooks,
What time the granite sentinels that watch
The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first
Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend
Their august lineaments; what time Haroun
Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew
He was the Caliph who knocked soberly
By Giafar's hand at their gates, shut betimes;
129
'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying
For his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,
Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave
And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,
And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let
Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness
Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time
And bodily weight are for the wakeful only,
Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,
Floating poised happily in mid-air, bathed
In a sustaining halo, soft and warm,
Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven
Its own wide home alike; earth far below
Fading still further, further; towers and towns
Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged,
And tedious travellers within iron cars;
Its rivers, and its fields with labouring hinds,
To whose raised eyes, as, stretched upon the sward,
They may enjoy some intervals of rest,
That little cloud appears scarce worth a thought.
There is an old and memorable tale
Of some sound sleeper being borne away
By banded faeries in the mottled hour,
Before the cock-crow, through unknown weird woods
And nameless forests, where the boughs and roots
Opened before him, closed behind; thenceforth
130
Perchance again these fairies may return,
And evermore shall I remain as now—
A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!—
Wandering no more, there are no faeries now;
I hear domestic voices on the stair!
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