"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH"

          WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
          Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
          Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
          Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
          A goodly Vessel did I then espy
          Come like a giant from a haven broad;
          And lustily along the bay she strode,
          Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
          This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
          Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;                      10
          This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
          When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
          No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:
          On went She, and due north her journey took.
                                                              1806.

"WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?"

          WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
          Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
          Festively she puts forth in trim array;
          Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
          What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe
          She cares for; let her travel where she may,
          She finds familiar names, a beaten way
          Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
          Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
          And, almost as it was when ships were rare,                 10
          (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
          Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
          Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
          Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
                                                              1806.

TO SLEEP

          O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
          These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
          To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
          A captive never wishing to be free.
          This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
          A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
          Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
          Now on the water vexed with mockery.
          I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
          Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:                    10
          Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
          Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
          O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
          But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
                                                              1806.

TO SLEEP

          A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
          One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
          Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
          Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
          I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
          Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
          Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
          And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
          Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
          And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:              10
          So do not let me wear to-night away:
          Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
          Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
          Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
                                                              1806.

TO SLEEP

          FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
          And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
          The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
          When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
          Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
          In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
          All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
          Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
          Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
          I surely not a man ungently made,                           10
          Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
          Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
          Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
          Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
                                                              1806.

MICHAEL ANGELO IN REPLY TO THE PASSAGE UPON HIS STATUE OF NIGHT SLEEPING

                             'Night Speaks'

          GRATEFUL is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast;
          More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,
          On me can Time no happier state bestow
          Than to be left unconscious of the woe.
          Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.
          Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to be
          Of marble; for while shameless wrong and woe
          Prevail, 'tis best to neither hear nor see.
          Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, speak low.
          Come, gentle Sleep, Death's image tho' thou art,            10
          Come share my couch, nor speedily depart;
          How sweet thus living without life to lie,
          Thus without death how sweet it is to die.
                                                              1806.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO
I

          YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
          And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
          For if of our affections none finds grace
          In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
          The world which we inhabit? Better plea
          Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
          Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
          Who such divinity to thee imparts
          As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
          His hope is treacherous only whose love dies                10
          With beauty, which is varying every hour;
          But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
          Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
          That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
                                                              1806.

FROM THE SAME
II

          NO mortal object did these eyes behold
          When first they met the placid light of thine,
          And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
          And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
          Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;
          Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
          (For what delights the sense is false and weak)
          Ideal Form, the universal mould.
          The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
          In that which perishes: nor will he lend                    10
          His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
          'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
          That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
          Even here below, but more in heaven above.
                                                              1806.

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

          CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them
          Who may respect my name, that I to thee
          Owed many years of early liberty.
          This care was thine when sickness did condemn
          Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem--
          That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
          Where'er I liked; and finally array
          My temples with the Muse's diadem.
          Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
          If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,               10
          In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
          Of higher mood, which now I meditate;--
          It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
          To think how much of this will be thy praise.
                                                              1806.

"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"
I

          METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
          Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
          Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
          But all the steps and ground about were strown
          With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
          Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
          Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
          "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
          Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
          Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one                    10
          Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
          With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
          Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
          A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
                                                              1806.