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“ A LITTLE more sleep, a little more slumber,
A little more folding the hands to sleep,” For quick-footed dreams, without order or number,
Over my mind are beginning to creep, — Rare is the happiness thus to be raptured
By your wild whispers, my Fanciful train, And, like a linnet, be carelessly captured
In the soft nets of my beautiful brain !
Touch not these curtains !—your hand will be tearing
Delicate tissues of thoughts and of things ;Call me not !—your cruel voice will be scaring
Flocks of young visions on gossamer wings : Leave me, O leave me,—for in your rude presence
Nothing of all my bright world can remain,Thou art a blight to this garden of pleasance,
Thou art a blot on my beautiful brain !
Cease your dull lecture on cares and employment,
Let me forget awhile trouble and strife, Leave me to peace,-let me husband enjoyment,
This is the heart and the marrow of life! For to my feeling the choicest of pleasures
Is to lie thus, without peril or pain, Lazily listening the musical measures
Of the sweet voice in my beautiful brain !
Hush,--for the halo of calmness is spreading
Over my spirit, as mild as a dove ;
Over my body his vial of love.;
Thus would I court them again and again,
In the swift waltz of my beautiful brain !
OPEN the casement, and up with the Sun !
Day hath broken, joyous and fair ;
Lo, the wondering world awakes,
Break away boldly from Sleep's leaden chain ;
Gird thee, and do thy watching well,
y's shore ! Slumber and sloth thrall thee no more.
How gladly would I wander through some strange
and savage land, The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my
hand, A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side, And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I
Alone, alone-yet not alone, for God is with me
there, The tender hand of Providence shall guide me every
where, While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm
and mild, Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of Without a guide,-yet guided well,—young, buoyant,
fresh and free, Without a road,—yet all the land a highway unto
me, Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain, Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the
Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home
I start The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart, And then,- with eager spur, to scour, away, away, Nor stop,-until my dogs have brought the glorious
brute to bay.
Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my
track, I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches
shine, A touch upon the trigger--and his spotted skin is
And then the hunter's savoury fare at tranquil even
tide, The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill