Nay, more--these winds are thought magicians. And supereminent physicians: For men who have been kill’d outright, They cure again at dead of night. That double witch, who erst did dwell In Endor’s cave, raised Samuel; But they each night raise countless hosts Of wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts; Turn shaking locks to clanking chains, And howl most supernatural strains: While all our dunces lose their wits, And pass the night in ague-fits. While this _nocturnal series blows_ I hide my head beneath the clothes, And sue the power whose dew distils The only balm for human ills. All day the sun’s prevailing beam Absorbs this dew from Lethe’s stream: All night the falling moisture sheds Oblivion over mortal heads. Then sinking into sleep I fall, And leave them _piping_ at their _ball_. When morning comes--no summer’s morn-- I wake and find the spectres gone; But on the casement see emboss’d A mimic world in crusted frost; Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow, Mountains above, and seas below; Or, if Imagination bids, Vast crystal domes, and pyramids. Then starting from my couch I leap, And shake away the dregs of sleep, Just breathe upon the grand array, And ice-bergs slide in seas away. Now on the scout I sally forth, The weather-cock due E. by N. To meet some masquerading fog, Which makes all nature dance incog. And spreads blue devils, and blue looks, Till exercised by tongues and books. Books, do I say? full well I wist A book’s a famous exorcist! A book’s the tow that makes the tether That binds the quick and dead together; A speaking trumpet under ground, That turns a silence to a sound; A magic mirror form’d to show, Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago. They’re aromatic cloths, that hold The mind embalm’d in many a fold, And look, arrang’d in dust-hung rooms, Like mummies in Egyptian tombs; --Enchanted echoes, that reply, Not to the ear, but to the eye; Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain, By strange contagion, joy or pain. A book’s the phœnix of the earth, Which bursts in splendour from its birth: And like the moon without her wanes, From every change new lustre gains; Shining with undiminish’d light, While ages wing their idle flight. By such a glorious theme inspired Still could I sing--but you are tired: (Tho’ adamantine lungs would do, Ears should be adamantine too,) And thence we may deduce ’tis better To answer (’faith ’tis time) your letter.