Dear Reynolds! as last night I lay in bed, There came before my eyes that wonted thread Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances, That every other minute vex and please: Things all disjointed come from north and south,-- Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, And Alexander with his nightcap on; Old Socrates a-tying his cravat, And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat; And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so, Making the best of's way towards Soho. Few are there who escape these visitings,-- Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes; But flowers bursting out with lusty pride, And young Aeolian harps personify'd; Some Titian colours touch'd into real life,-- The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows, The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows: A white sail shows above the green-head cliff, Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff; The mariners join hymn with those on land. You know the Enchanted Castle,--it doth stand Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword. O Phoebus! that I had thy sacred word To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise, Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies! You know it well enough, where it doth seem A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream; You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills, All which elsewhere are but half animate; There do they look alive to love and hate, To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound Above some giant, pulsing underground. Part of the Building was a chosen See, Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee; The other part, two thousand years from him, Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim; Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun; And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. The doors all look as if they op'd themselves The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, And from them comes a silver flash of light, As from the westward of a Summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad thro' olden songs and poesies. See! what is coming from the distance dim! A golden Galley all in silken trim! Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles; Towards the shade, under the Castle wall, It comes in silence,--now 'tis hidden all. The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate An echo of sweet music doth create A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring,-- He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, To all his friends, and they believe him not.