You're but a doleful sound at best:
I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
For breaking thus my needful rest!
Yet if, as soon as it is light,

O Rain! you will but take your flight,
I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
Though sick and sore for want of sleep.

But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,

The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!

You know, if you know aught, that we,

Both night and day, but ill agree:

For days and months, and almost years,
Have limped on through this vale of tears,
Since body of mine, and rainy weather,
Have lived on easy terms together.
Yet if, as soon as it is light,

O Rain! you will but take your flight,
Though you should come again to-morrow,
And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
Though stomach should sicken and knees should
swell-

I'll nothing speak of you but well.

But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way;

Nay, I could write a book myself,
Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
Showing how very good you are.—
What then? sometimes it must be fair!
And if sometimes, why not to-day?
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,
Take no offence! I'll tell you why.
A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
And with him came my sister dear;
After long absence now first met,

Long months by pain and grief beset

With three dear friends! in truth, we groan

Impatiently to be alone.

We three, you mark! and not one more!

The strong wish makes my spirit sore.

We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners-
In short, as soon as it is day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!
Whenever you shall come again,

Be you as dull as e'er you could,
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good)
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;

And though you stayed a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;

Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still;

Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day,

Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

1809.

A DAY-DREAM.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut:I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruined hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there.

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,
And that and summer well agree:
And lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:

Our sister and our friend will both be here to

morrow.

j

A DAY-DREAM.

'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June!

67

A glowworm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Asra, love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast,
This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me!

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither.
But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made ;
And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee: I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

1814 16.

THE PAINS OF SLEEP.*

ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eyelids close,
With reverential resignation,

No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
Only a sense of supplication;
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, everywhere
Eternal strength and wisdom are.

But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, Upstarting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : A lurid light, a trampling throng,

Sense of intolerable wrong,

And whom I scorned, those only strong!

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will

Still baffled, and yet burning still!

See Note.