And he had passed a restless night, And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side, And talked as 'twere by stealth. "The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee; "A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too; Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Make up a glory gay and bright Round that small orb, so blue." And then they argued of those rays, What colour they might be; Says this, "They're mostly green"; says that, "They're amber-like to me." So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts Were troubling Edward's rest; But soon they heard his hard quick pants, And the thumping in his breast. "A mother too!" these self-same words Did Edward mutter plain; His face was drawn back on itself, With horror and huge pain. Both groan'd at once, for both knew well What thoughts were in his mind; When he waked up, and stared like one That hath been just struck blind. He sat upright; and ere the dream Had had time to depart, "O God, forgive me!" (he exclaimed) "I have torn out her heart." Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after. 1797-1809. _Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum._ To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!----[Note of S.T.C.--l8l5.] DEJECTION: AN ODE Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms; And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. _Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence._ I Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing drafty that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The, coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear-- O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,