Lo! on a slanting rock, outstretched at length, A woodman lay in slumber, fair as death,-- His limbs relaxed in all their supple strength, His lips half-parted with his easy breath, And by one gleam of hovering light caressed His bare brown arm and white uncovered breast. V. "Why comes he here?" I whispered, treading soft The hushing moss beside his flinty bed: "Sweet are the haycocks in yon clover-croft,-- The meadow turf were light beneath his head: Could he not slumber by the orchard-tree, And leave this quiet unprofaned for me?" VI. But something held my step. I bent, and scanned (As one might view a veiny agate-stone) The hard, half-open fingers of his hand, Strong cords of wrist, knit round the jointed bone, And sunburnt muscles, firm and full of power, But harmless now as petals of a flower. VII. The rock itself was not more still: yet one Light spray of grass shook ever at his wrist, Counting the muffled pulses. Where the sun The open fairness of his bosom kissed, I marked the curious beauty of the skirt, And dim blue branches of the blood within. VIII. There lay the unconscious Life, but, ah! more fair Than ever blindly stirred in leaf and bark,-- Warmth, beauty, passion, mystery everywhere, Beyond the Dryad's feebly burning spark Of cold poetic being: who could say If here the angel or the wild beast lay? IX. Then I looked up and read his helpless face: Peace touched the temples and the eyelids, slept On drooping lashes, made itself a place In smiles that gently to the corners crept Of parting lips, and came and went, to show The happy freedom of the heart below. X. A holy rest! wherein the man became Man's interceding representative: In Sleep's white realm fell off his mask of blame, And he was sacred, for that he did live. His presence marred no more the quiet deep, But all the glen became a shrine of sleep! XI. And then I mused:--How lovely this repose! How the shut sense its dwelling consecrates! Sleep guards itself against the hands of foes: Its breath disarms the Envies and the Hates Which haunt our lives: were this mine enemy, My stealthy watch could not less reverent be! XII. Here lie our human passions, sung to rest By tender Nature, anxious to restore Some hours of innocence to every breast, To part the husks around the untainted core Of life, and show, in equal helplessness, The hearts that wound us and the hearts that bless! XIII.