_W. Wordsworth_

CLXIV

_THE SLEEPING BEAUTY_

1--THE MAGIC SLEEP

1

Year 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

1

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 c.o.c.ks; 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 peac.o.c.k 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, 'Twas 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 pa.s.s 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 la.s.ses 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 a.s.syrian 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 withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pa.s.s'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_

CLXVII

_THE WIDOW BIRD_