1. 'Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain; My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; And from my fingers flow _5 The powers of life, and like a sign, Seal thee from thine hour of woe; And brood on thee, but may not blend With thine. 2. 'Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; _10 But when I think that he Who made and makes my lot As full of flowers as thine of weeds, Might have been lost like thee; And that a hand which was not mine _15 Might then have charmed his agony As I another's--my heart bleeds For thine. 3. 'Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of The dead and the unborn _20 Forget thy life and love; Forget that thou must wake forever; Forget the world's dull scorn; Forget lost health, and the divine Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; _25 And forget me, for I can never Be thine. 4. 'Like a cloud big with a May shower, My soul weeps healing rain On thee, thou withered flower! _30 It breathes mute music on thy sleep Its odour calms thy brain! Its light within thy gloomy breast Spreads like a second youth again. By mine thy being is to its deep _35 Possessed. 5. 'The spell is done. How feel you now?' 'Better--Quite well,' replied The sleeper.--'What would do _39 You good when suffering and awake? What cure your head and side?--' 'What would cure, that would kill me, Jane: And as I must on earth abide Awhile, yet tempt me not to break My chain.' _45 NOTES; _1, _10 Sleep Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; Sleep on 1832, 1839, 1st edition. _16 charmed Trelawny manuscript; chased 1832, editions 1839. _21 love]woe 1832. _42 so Trelawny manuscript 'Twould kill me what would cure my pain 1832, editions 1839. _44 Awhile yet, cj. A.C. Bradley. *** LINES: 'WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED'. [Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.] 1. When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, _5 Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. 2. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, _10 The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute:-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges _15 That ring the dead seaman's knell.