And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, The rhymes are dazzled from their place, THE SLEEPING PALACE. I. HE varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy Here rests the plains ; sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. III. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs : The mantles from the golden pegs Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. IV. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair; The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are sever'd as to speak: His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. V. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. His state the king reposing keeps. VI. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire. VII. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. I. EAR after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purpled 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. II. 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. |