Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, Where they like swallows coming out of time Will wonder why they came: but hark the bell For dinner, let us go!' And in we stream'd Among the columns, pacing staid and still How might a man not wander from his wits Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine own Intent on her, who rapt in awful dreams, The second-sight of some Astræan age, Sat compass'd with professors: they, the while, Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : A clamour thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms Of art and science: Lady Blanche alone Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, With all her Autumn tresses falsely brown, Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat In act to spring. At last a solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there One walk'd reciting by herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read, And smoothed a petted peacock down with that: Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, Or under arches of the marble bridge Hung, shadow'd from the heat: some hid and sought In the orange thickets: others tost a ball Above the fountain-jets, and back again Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their May They wish'd to marry; they could rule a house; Men hated learned women but we three E Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts Of gentle satire, kin to charity, That harm'd not: then day droopt; the chapel bells Call'd us we left the walks; we mixt with those Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes, Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labours for the world. Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dropping moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. III. MORN in the white wake of the morning star We rose, and each by other drest with care In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd There while we stood beside the fount, and watch'd Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes The circled Iris of a night of tears; And fly' she cried, O fly, while yet you may ! |