And would you have the thought I had,
And see the vision that I saw,

So take the broidery-frame, and add
A crimson to the quaint Macaw,
And I will tell it. Turn your face,
Nor look with that too-earnest eye —
The rhymes are dazzled from their place,
And order'd words asunder fly.

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

THE varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;

Here rests the sap within the leaf,

Here stays the blood along the veins.

Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd,

Faint murmurs from the meadows come,

Like hints and echoes of the world

To spirits folded in the womb.

Soft lustre bathes the

range

of urns

On every slanting terrace-lawn.

The fountain to his place returns

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall hearths the festal fires,

The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:
In these, in those the life is stay'd.

The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,

Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings,

That watch the sleepers from the wall.

Here sits the Butler with a flask

Between his knees half-drain'd; and there

The wrinkled steward at his task,

The maid-of-honour blooming fair:

The page has caught her hand in his :
Her lips are sever'd as to speak:
His own are pouted to a kiss:

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek.

Till all the hundred summers pass,

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass,

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps,
Grave faces gather'd in a ring.

His state the king reposing keeps.
He must have been a jolly king.

All round the hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes,

And

grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen,

High up, the topmost palace-spire.

When will the hundred summers die,

And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,

Bring truth that sways the souls of men? Here all things in their place remain,

As all were order'd, ages since.

Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

YEAR after year unto her feet,

She lying on her couch alone,

Across the purpled coverlet,

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown,

On either side her tranced form

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm,

And moves not on the rounded curl.

The silk star-broider'd coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould

Languidly ever; and, amid

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light.

She sleeps her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd

That lie upon her charmed heart.

She sleeps on either hand upswells

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells

A perfect form in perfect rest.