University of Virginia Library

Weary heart! what makes thee beat
Such a loud and rapid measure?
Why this wild and feverish heat,
Ever burning in the breast,
Robbing day of all its pleasure,
And defrauding night of rest?
Tell me what unwonted weight
Hath upon thee pressed of late,
That thou should'st thine office do
With this quick, uneasy motion,
While the blood leaps to and fro
Like the chafing tides of ocean.
When I read, or when I think,
When I hover on the brink
Of slumber, wherefore dost thou start
And flutter so, my weary heart?
Why within my bosom bound
With this dull and heavy sound,
Like the hollow, throbbing bell
That rings out a funeral knell?
Why dost thou, O dewy Sleep!
Ever thus at distance keep;
Have I broken thy sweet law,
Sweet to soul, and sweet to sense,
That thou should'st so far withdraw
Thy bland refreshing influence?

When I was a careless boy,
Breathing the free air of joy,
By the first star lit to bed,
When my childish prayer was said;
Then, with quick, benign surprise,
Thou would'st fall upon my eyes,
As the soft and soundless dew
Lights upon the violets blue,—
As the small and murmuring rain,
Wept from summer clouds, which stain
The blue heavens an hour, and pass,
Having cheered the thirsty grass.
Then, or e'er I was aware,
Thou hadst caught me in thy snare,
Lulled me with thy drowsy wings;
From thy deep, soul-charming springs
Sprinkled over every sense
An oblivious influence;
Called up lovely shapes and bright
To bewitch me all the night,—
Store of radiant apparitions,
Castles, forests, shifting visions,
Flushed with gleams from Eastern skies,
Shifting ever to the chime
Of melodious phantasies,
From the Faëry land that lies
In that spicy Persian clime,
And the old enchanted time,
When the Caliphs in their state
In Bagdad, by the Tigris, sate.
Happy times! gone like a breath,—
Blissful nights for ever ended,
Visions, voices, marvels flown,
Days of innocence and faith,
When the mystery of Death
Was as yet uncomprehended,
Because Sin was yet unknown!
Happy ignorance, that goes
From the creature as it grows!
Like the bloom from off the rose,
Like the brightness from the eye,
Like the glory from the sky,
And the music of the stream,
And the witchery of the dream,—
All that in Life's morning glow
Once we saw, but see not now;
All that perishes in the strife
Of this care-corroded life,—
All that Wisdom from us takes
As its tribute,—all that makes
Childhood's world a paradise
(Rich in each resource to bless),—
To the weed-sown wilderness
That around our manhood lies!

When I was a student free,
With an earnest ecstasy,
Digging in the mines of old
For the brave barbaric gold,
From which ethnic sages wrought
Rare creations of high thought,
When I took a lofty pleasure
To lay bare their hidden treasure,—
Thirsted for that generous juice
Which the poets of old days,
In their passion-haunted lays
(For all generations' use),
Stored and sealèd to inspire
Nimble wits with its fine fire,—
I could hold at scorn thy power;
Many a joyous midnight hour
Would I rob thee of,—in vain
Would'st thou murmur and complain,—
And, in wrath at my disdain,
Thou wouldst strive and struggle hard,
With some well-contrived device,
To throw my spirit off its guard,
And steal on me by surprise.
Thou wouldst cast some shadow fair
O'er my mind,—into the air
Breathe a melting drowsy charm
My faint senses to disarm;
In my ear wouldst whisper bland,—
Thy constraining gentle hand
On my eyelids thou wouldst press,—
And a sense of weariness
Through my languid limbs infuse
By the virtue of thy dews,—
And a mist would swim before
My vision till I read no more.
Sleep! thou, then, wert never coy,—
In the middle of my joy,
Even when thou wert not sought,—
When most alien to my thought,
Thou wouldst come, unloved, unbidden;
Now thou wilt not come though chidden.

I repent me of the slight
Done to thee in days of yore,—
Days now ended evermore!—
And from under this great blight
Which I dreamt not would befall me,
Now, O Sleep! I vainly call thee.
Wilt thou not, O power benign,
Soothe me with thy anodyne,
And, in this extremity,
Cancel the severe decree
Which in anger thou hast passed?
Wilt thou still refuse to cast
O'er my sense that gentle rain,
Which shall ease me of my pain?