And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there! Young flowers were whispering in melody [21] To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell; Yet silence came upon material things-- Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings-- And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: "Neath blue-bell or streamer-- Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam away--[22] Bright beings! that ponder, With half-closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro' the shade, and Come down to your brow Like--eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now-- Arise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours-- And shake from your tresses Encumber'd with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too-- (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That lull'd ye to rest! Up! shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night-- It would weigh down your flight; And true love caresses-- O! leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, [23] Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep-- But the strains still arise Which _thy_ vigilance keep-- The sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances again In the rhythm of the shower-- The murmur that springs [24] From the growing of grass Are the music of things-- But are modell'd, alas! Away, then, my dearest, O! hie thee away To springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray-- To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast-- Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid-- Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee--[25] Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea--