On which the Tartar king did ride! Of tourneys and of trophies hung, Of forests and enchantments drear, Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, Where the rude axe with heavéd stroke Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Sent by some spirit to mortals good, And bring all heaven before mine eyes. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Yon deep bark goes Where Traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. |