XXIV.
Sleep, death without dying--living without life.
_Edwin Arnold_.
XXV.
She sleeps; her breathings are not heard
In palace-chambers far apart,
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
That he upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps; on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest;
She sleeps, nor dreams but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.
_Alfred Tennyson_.
XXVI.
The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast them to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labored
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
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