Summer An Invocation to Sleep; Fairy Revels; and Songs and Sonnets. By Cornelius Webb |
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INVOCATION TO SLEEP. |
 | Summer |  |
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INVOCATION TO SLEEP.
Oh unkind Sleep, to shun a poet's bed,
And one, too, who would rather feel his head
Girt by thy poppy-crown, than garlanded
With Fame's immortal wreath, or coronal
Such as on shepherd's brow from fair hand falls,
When May, the Summer's mother, doth outcall
The winter-rested Sport from Indolence' halls,
Age from warm Christmas' bowers, jolly Delight,
And passionate Love and Beauty, to the sight
Of her, and her green haunts, and sylvan bowers,
Prankt in her choicest way, with all her sweetest flowers.
And one, too, who would rather feel his head
Girt by thy poppy-crown, than garlanded
With Fame's immortal wreath, or coronal
Such as on shepherd's brow from fair hand falls,
When May, the Summer's mother, doth outcall
The winter-rested Sport from Indolence' halls,
Age from warm Christmas' bowers, jolly Delight,
And passionate Love and Beauty, to the sight
Of her, and her green haunts, and sylvan bowers,
Prankt in her choicest way, with all her sweetest flowers.
Last eve, thou badest me to thy modest bed,
And I obeyed and went—but thou wert fled,
Why gone I know, and where thou'rt palletted:
On Penury's bed of straw thou may'st be found;
With warriors sunk upon the tentless ground;
With mariners, wrecked the while by rock and surge,
Whose wave is their death-sheet, its howl their dirge.
The murderer sleeps; and he who dies to-morrow
Rests well to-night, and life from thee doth borrow
To die, and meet with strength the strength of Fate.
The beggar, too, laid at the rich man's gate,
He doth not woo thee, nor thy coming wait;
Thou'lt go to him, and kiss his eyes whilst weeping,
And bless his sorrows with a senseless sleeping.
For this one act of sweet humanity,
Thou shalt have little blame, if aught, of me,—
Not now like him, though deeper once in misery.
And I obeyed and went—but thou wert fled,
Why gone I know, and where thou'rt palletted:
On Penury's bed of straw thou may'st be found;
With warriors sunk upon the tentless ground;
With mariners, wrecked the while by rock and surge,
Whose wave is their death-sheet, its howl their dirge.
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Rests well to-night, and life from thee doth borrow
To die, and meet with strength the strength of Fate.
The beggar, too, laid at the rich man's gate,
He doth not woo thee, nor thy coming wait;
Thou'lt go to him, and kiss his eyes whilst weeping,
And bless his sorrows with a senseless sleeping.
For this one act of sweet humanity,
Thou shalt have little blame, if aught, of me,—
Not now like him, though deeper once in misery.
Thou shalt be chid as children by fond mothers,
As lovers chide their loves, sisters their brothers,
Or whispering winds the smooth Sicilian deep;
For I would win thee back, thou timid Sleep,
Not drive thee farther hence by over-boldness,
And to forgotten love add distance' coldness,—
Would thou wouldst come, as was thy wont—unbidden,
When, in my childhood's youth, all unaware
I've found me in thine arms, fallen from chair
(For fireside warmth placed snug in corner nook,)
Whilst poring drowsily the holy book,
In sullen silence read, with frequent look
Glanced sly asquint on toys usurped by elf
Happier than I, for that he pleased himself.
Then for thy coming thou wert rudely chidden
By petulant nurses, never loth to scold;
Or gentler grandame, with her voice of old,
Who only seemed to chide, and vainly strove
To hide with feigned frown the breaking smile of love.
As lovers chide their loves, sisters their brothers,
Or whispering winds the smooth Sicilian deep;
For I would win thee back, thou timid Sleep,
Not drive thee farther hence by over-boldness,
And to forgotten love add distance' coldness,—
Would thou wouldst come, as was thy wont—unbidden,
When, in my childhood's youth, all unaware
I've found me in thine arms, fallen from chair
(For fireside warmth placed snug in corner nook,)
Whilst poring drowsily the holy book,
In sullen silence read, with frequent look
Glanced sly asquint on toys usurped by elf
Happier than I, for that he pleased himself.
Then for thy coming thou wert rudely chidden
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Or gentler grandame, with her voice of old,
Who only seemed to chide, and vainly strove
To hide with feigned frown the breaking smile of love.
Yet thou wouldst come and come, despite their chiding,
And make my home the ark of thine abiding,—
Though I would shake thy poppies from my brow,
And force thy fingers from my lids. But now—
Now youth's brief day is at its eve,—and care
Hath ploughed my forehead with sharp, gradual share,
And sown the early seeds of sorrow there,—
To fly me now, when more than ever needed,—
When joy is so like madness, that 'tis dreaded,—
To shun the tumult thy calm hush should soothe,
And leave the pillow thy sleek hands should smoothe;
How, when I think of this, can I but blame thee;
How with my former fondness can I name thee,
Thou, Sleep, who shouldst give rest, and not annoy—
Contrary thing—unfixed, unkind, and coy,—
That wilt not bed with Grief, nor with her brother, Joy!
And make my home the ark of thine abiding,—
Though I would shake thy poppies from my brow,
And force thy fingers from my lids. But now—
Now youth's brief day is at its eve,—and care
Hath ploughed my forehead with sharp, gradual share,
And sown the early seeds of sorrow there,—
To fly me now, when more than ever needed,—
When joy is so like madness, that 'tis dreaded,—
To shun the tumult thy calm hush should soothe,
And leave the pillow thy sleek hands should smoothe;
How, when I think of this, can I but blame thee;
How with my former fondness can I name thee,
Thou, Sleep, who shouldst give rest, and not annoy—
Contrary thing—unfixed, unkind, and coy,—
That wilt not bed with Grief, nor with her brother, Joy!
I woo thee, Sleep, but do not hope to win;
For to all studious wights thou aye hast been
Lothful and coy. Yet will I thee beseech,
In meekest manner, and in smoothest speech,
To lap me in unconsciousness, and lay
Me, weary of dull night, on thy soft couch till day!
For to all studious wights thou aye hast been
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In meekest manner, and in smoothest speech,
To lap me in unconsciousness, and lay
Me, weary of dull night, on thy soft couch till day!
If thou dost hear, come now to him who bids
With as faint voice, and feeble, quiet breath
As some have bade thy readier brother, Death!
But ah! thou shunnest eyes which seldom steep
In dews Lethean, but watch and wane, and weep
Hot, painful tears, in full and frequent showers;
Thou lovest brows less marked than mine, and lids
Which knit as lightly as the lids of flowers
That close when Phœbus shuns the viny bowers
Which woo him from his way awhile with ease,
To show him their red grapes and mellowing trees,
When he would bathe his forehead faint in cooling seas.
With as faint voice, and feeble, quiet breath
As some have bade thy readier brother, Death!
But ah! thou shunnest eyes which seldom steep
In dews Lethean, but watch and wane, and weep
Hot, painful tears, in full and frequent showers;
Thou lovest brows less marked than mine, and lids
Which knit as lightly as the lids of flowers
That close when Phœbus shuns the viny bowers
Which woo him from his way awhile with ease,
To show him their red grapes and mellowing trees,
When he would bathe his forehead faint in cooling seas.
Oh willing bedmate of young Life; fair mocker
Of Death; husher of garrulous Noise; locker
Unheard of chamber-doors; love-patient rocker
Of frequent-waking Infancy; brightener
Of Beauty's waning eyes; tenderest lightener
Of heavy hearts, and strained, laborious limbs;
Young comforter of Age; listener to muttered
And faint prayers, to evening's vesper-hymns,
To secrets only in thine ear safe-uttered,
And broken thoughts told in imperfect word;
Healthiest bracer of the slackened cords
That bind the impatient, ever-winging soul
To its dark house of earth and prisoning-goal;—
Listen, whilst I invoke thee, by the breathings
Of famed poets to thy praise; by all wreathings
Of thy flushed poppy, drowsiest of flowers;
By all chaste sleepers in thy silent bowers;
By the first sleeper, Adam—when his eyes,
Waking to love, and beauty, and surprise,
Her viewed who perfected his paradise;
By Milton's forest-sleep, when Beauty cast
Her soul's eyes on him, as along she past,
Yet loitered long enough to lose her heart;
By Lucrece' ravished rest; by Richard's start
From the king-haunted bed; by Juliet's sleep,
Death-like and fatal; by him that, on the steep
Of Latmus, resting on a rosy couch,
Won Dian down, who waked him with warm touch;
By the clown's charmed sleep, when the Fay-queen
Grew gloating-amorous of his mulish mein;
By the observed sleep of Imogen;
By Desdemona's broken sleep—the last
Her jealous lord could break, when with blind haste
He crushed her breath, as breath of angels chaste,—
I here invoke thee, Sleep, and vow to thee,
That in my proudest wreath thy flower shall blended be.
Of Death; husher of garrulous Noise; locker
Unheard of chamber-doors; love-patient rocker
Of frequent-waking Infancy; brightener
Of Beauty's waning eyes; tenderest lightener
Of heavy hearts, and strained, laborious limbs;
Young comforter of Age; listener to muttered
And faint prayers, to evening's vesper-hymns,
To secrets only in thine ear safe-uttered,
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Healthiest bracer of the slackened cords
That bind the impatient, ever-winging soul
To its dark house of earth and prisoning-goal;—
Listen, whilst I invoke thee, by the breathings
Of famed poets to thy praise; by all wreathings
Of thy flushed poppy, drowsiest of flowers;
By all chaste sleepers in thy silent bowers;
By the first sleeper, Adam—when his eyes,
Waking to love, and beauty, and surprise,
Her viewed who perfected his paradise;
By Milton's forest-sleep, when Beauty cast
Her soul's eyes on him, as along she past,
Yet loitered long enough to lose her heart;
By Lucrece' ravished rest; by Richard's start
From the king-haunted bed; by Juliet's sleep,
Death-like and fatal; by him that, on the steep
Of Latmus, resting on a rosy couch,
Won Dian down, who waked him with warm touch;
By the clown's charmed sleep, when the Fay-queen
Grew gloating-amorous of his mulish mein;
By the observed sleep of Imogen;
By Desdemona's broken sleep—the last
Her jealous lord could break, when with blind haste
He crushed her breath, as breath of angels chaste,—
I here invoke thee, Sleep, and vow to thee,
That in my proudest wreath thy flower shall blended be.
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In this sixth hour, which darkness yet doth keep
Unrightfully from light, Delight might leap
(Were Summer reigning, and thou willing, Sleep,)
From thy warm couch and darkened dormitory,
And to the fields of morn, in her youth's glory,
Rush breathlessly, to drink a balmier breath,
And wear the rose of life on cheeks half-stained with death.
Unrightfully from light, Delight might leap
(Were Summer reigning, and thou willing, Sleep,)
From thy warm couch and darkened dormitory,
And to the fields of morn, in her youth's glory,
Rush breathlessly, to drink a balmier breath,
And wear the rose of life on cheeks half-stained with death.
But Winter, lover of thy lengthened reign,
And kindliness, and rest from cold and pain;
Winter, who chills the summer-amorous swallow
Into that rest he loathes, and bids him hollow
A hidden hole where he till Spring may dwell;
Winter, who bolts the eremite in his cell,
And with heaped snow entombs rude Lapland's huts;
Winter, the cold of heart, who sternly shuts
His door on houseless need, and by his fire
Hears his faint prayer and dying voice expire;
Winter forbids this joy, for which I yearn
Much as sick mariners, when they discern,
With eyes deluded, in the sea's green wave,
Fields, flowered and fresh, and plunge, and find a grave.
And kindliness, and rest from cold and pain;
Winter, who chills the summer-amorous swallow
Into that rest he loathes, and bids him hollow
A hidden hole where he till Spring may dwell;
Winter, who bolts the eremite in his cell,
And with heaped snow entombs rude Lapland's huts;
Winter, the cold of heart, who sternly shuts
His door on houseless need, and by his fire
Hears his faint prayer and dying voice expire;
Winter forbids this joy, for which I yearn
Much as sick mariners, when they discern,
With eyes deluded, in the sea's green wave,
Fields, flowered and fresh, and plunge, and find a grave.
But for thee, Sleep, and thy strange waywardness,
What visions might have come this night to bless;
I perhaps had dreamed of scenes Arcadian,
Had seen chaste Syrinx' flight, and lusty Pan
Panting with painful sides, bloated with speed
In hunting down that virgin, till her need
Was known of heaven, who changed her to a reed;
Had heard the shagged Satyrs' hideous laugh
At Pan's discomfiture, which he did quaff
With ears erect, and reddening with strong anger,
Had marked the horrid route and deafening clangour
Of Comus' issuing to his orgies lewd,
With monstrous crew of Bacchants, drunken-rude,
Out-driving darkness from her midnight wood
With glow and glare of many a flaring torch,
Which, as they rush, the under dry leaves scorch;
Had dashed from the close tempter's hand the cup
Dangerous to virtue, ere it was lifted up
To her discreet, sweet lip; had walked unseen,
Though close-companioned, with those brothers twain,
Their sister, Chasteness, seeking through a night
Dark as its deeds of lewdness; and had lent
Attentive note to their warm argument
And high, which Boötes, wheeling his slow wain
Along the plains of heaven, halted to hear;
The whilst those airy beings who make flight,
On heavenly missions, nightly to this sphere,
Won by truth's holy voice, quietly shut
Their winnowing wings, to mark old wisdom put
Young doubt to silence now, and now to praise
Of meek philosophy, which so could raise
The animal man from earth, and make him like a god.
What visions might have come this night to bless;
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Had seen chaste Syrinx' flight, and lusty Pan
Panting with painful sides, bloated with speed
In hunting down that virgin, till her need
Was known of heaven, who changed her to a reed;
Had heard the shagged Satyrs' hideous laugh
At Pan's discomfiture, which he did quaff
With ears erect, and reddening with strong anger,
Had marked the horrid route and deafening clangour
Of Comus' issuing to his orgies lewd,
With monstrous crew of Bacchants, drunken-rude,
Out-driving darkness from her midnight wood
With glow and glare of many a flaring torch,
Which, as they rush, the under dry leaves scorch;
Had dashed from the close tempter's hand the cup
Dangerous to virtue, ere it was lifted up
To her discreet, sweet lip; had walked unseen,
Though close-companioned, with those brothers twain,
Their sister, Chasteness, seeking through a night
Dark as its deeds of lewdness; and had lent
Attentive note to their warm argument
And high, which Boötes, wheeling his slow wain
Along the plains of heaven, halted to hear;
The whilst those airy beings who make flight,
On heavenly missions, nightly to this sphere,
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Their winnowing wings, to mark old wisdom put
Young doubt to silence now, and now to praise
Of meek philosophy, which so could raise
The animal man from earth, and make him like a god.
And but for thee, oh Sleep, I perhaps had rode
With fine-eyed Fancy in her winged car,—
Travelling high and high, until that star,
Clearest and first-discerned, had seemed as far
And dim-discernible as heaven from earth;
And so had heard the immortals, in their mirth,
Singing, with silvery voices, unto lyres
Strung by the hymner, Praise, with golden wires
Perfect in harmony. And next had seen
Beings unknown, of motion, shape, and mien,
Too heavenly-graceful ever to have been
Inhabiters of earth:—had walked with them
The one vast road to heaven,—road with rich gem,
And gold, and silver powdered, which bright dust,
Stirred by their pilgrim-feet, and seen o'nights
By northern shepherds, from their bleak-aired heights,
(Who to the purblind eyes of terror trust,
And not to reason,) are deemed beacon-lights,
That warn of reckless war and wrecking ruin;
Of darkest deeds of blood, and every fearful doing.
With fine-eyed Fancy in her winged car,—
Travelling high and high, until that star,
Clearest and first-discerned, had seemed as far
And dim-discernible as heaven from earth;
And so had heard the immortals, in their mirth,
Singing, with silvery voices, unto lyres
Strung by the hymner, Praise, with golden wires
Perfect in harmony. And next had seen
Beings unknown, of motion, shape, and mien,
Too heavenly-graceful ever to have been
Inhabiters of earth:—had walked with them
The one vast road to heaven,—road with rich gem,
And gold, and silver powdered, which bright dust,
Stirred by their pilgrim-feet, and seen o'nights
By northern shepherds, from their bleak-aired heights,
(Who to the purblind eyes of terror trust,
And not to reason,) are deemed beacon-lights,
That warn of reckless war and wrecking ruin;
Of darkest deeds of blood, and every fearful doing.
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Had seen such wonders as would make Romance
Blush for her poor inventions, and enhance
Her little love for Truth; had winged where stand
Those seven sister-virgins, each in hand
Holding a silver lamp of radiant shine,
Lustrous with light poured from the lamps divine.
Blush for her poor inventions, and enhance
Her little love for Truth; had winged where stand
Those seven sister-virgins, each in hand
Holding a silver lamp of radiant shine,
Lustrous with light poured from the lamps divine.
Then quick descending, ere the glib tongue of Time
Might tell a moment,—falling like stars that climb
Proudly, ambitiously, and so are hurled
Back on their station, nearer this far world—
Or that archangel, who the Powerful One
Braved to his front, but mounting towards his throne
With aweless daring, stumbled, and headlong fell,
Prince never more in heaven, though king in hell;
Hurtling as rapidly through the rending air,—
But with no thoughts like his of anger or despair.
Might tell a moment,—falling like stars that climb
Proudly, ambitiously, and so are hurled
Back on their station, nearer this far world—
Or that archangel, who the Powerful One
Braved to his front, but mounting towards his throne
With aweless daring, stumbled, and headlong fell,
Prince never more in heaven, though king in hell;
Hurtling as rapidly through the rending air,—
But with no thoughts like his of anger or despair.
So I had lit in a new paradise,
That had found gazing for a myriad eyes;
Had over-wandered fields with floweryness
Breathing deliciously to sweet excess;
Had roamed green banks, which nightly Fays emboss
With velvet cushions of the golden moss,
By lakes which pay no tribute to the sea,
Nor take from it, yet keep unwastedly;
Had laid me down on flowers by sudden fountains;
Had leapt deep waterfalls, and clambered mountains
Accessless but to thought;—mountains, whose name
Is poetry, long known and loved of Fame,
That dotard fond;—mountains that stoop
Like giants old, and seem as they would swoop
From their high seats down on the quaking dell,
And fall like Israel's priest, when those should prop him fell.
That had found gazing for a myriad eyes;
Had over-wandered fields with floweryness
Breathing deliciously to sweet excess;
Had roamed green banks, which nightly Fays emboss
With velvet cushions of the golden moss,
By lakes which pay no tribute to the sea,
Nor take from it, yet keep unwastedly;
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Had leapt deep waterfalls, and clambered mountains
Accessless but to thought;—mountains, whose name
Is poetry, long known and loved of Fame,
That dotard fond;—mountains that stoop
Like giants old, and seem as they would swoop
From their high seats down on the quaking dell,
And fall like Israel's priest, when those should prop him fell.
| Summer | |