Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
numbers
Winds have a soft, discoursing way;
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air! Heaven's starry talk is all its own,—
It dies in thunder far away.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is

teeming

E'en when thou wouldst the moon be

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying

Night after night, and the cry has been in vain;

That burden treasured in your hearts too Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for

Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleep

not claim her!

II.

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses,
She shades the bloom of her unearthly
days;-

The forest winds alone approach to woo
her.

Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses;

And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays,

Intelligible music warbling to her.

III.

That spirit charged to follow and defend ner,
He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain;
And she perhaps is sad, hearing his
sighing.

And yet that face is not so sad as tender;
Like some sweet singer's, when her sweet-
est strain

ing;

Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned

for him as dead;

By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping,

And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.

When will he awaken?

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring;

Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;

When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,
Own themselves vanquished by much-
enduring Love?

When will he awaken?
Asks the midnight's weary queen.

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched un-
tiring,

Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,

From the heaved heart is gradually Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,

dying!

AUBREY DE VERE,

Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh.
When will he awaken?

He has grown conscious of life's ancestral How all the impulses, whose native home is