The noble dame, on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armour bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long! _Sir W. Scott_ CCCXII _TO THE MOON_ Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,-- And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? _P. B. Shelley_ CCCXIII _TO SLEEP_ A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky: I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blesséd barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! _W. Wordsworth_ CCCXIV _THE SOLDIER'S DREAM_ Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'-- And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-- But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. _T. Campbell_ CCCXV _A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN_