XLIII.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day,
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain,
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blended alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose could shut and be a bud again.

_John Keats_.




XLIV.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
'Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd
Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key
To golden palaces, strange ministrelsy,
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves
And moonlight, aye, to all the mazy world
Of silvery enchantment!--who, upfurl'd
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour
But renovates and lives?