, joy attune her voice.

_Samuel T. Coleridge_.

XXIII.

Sleep! king of gods and men!
Come to my call again,
Swift over field and fen,
Mountain and deep:

Come, bid the waves be still;
Sleep, streams on height and hill;
Beasts, birds and snakes, thy will
Conquereth, Sleep!

Come on thy golden wings,
Come ere the swallow sings,
Lulling all living things,
Fly they or creep!

Come with thy leaden wand,
Come with thy kindly hand,
Soothing on sea or land
Mortals that weep

Come from the cloudy west,
Soft over brain and breast,
Bidding the Dragon rest,
Come to me, Sleep!

_Andrew Lang_.

XXIV.

Sleep, death without dying--living without life.

_Edwin Arnold_.

XXV.

She sleeps; her breathings are not heard
In palace-chambers far apart,
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
That he upon her charmed heart.

She sleeps; on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest;
She sleeps, nor dreams but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

_Alfred Tennyson_.

XXVI.

The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast them to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labored
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

Prince, ere the dark be shred
By golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft footed a