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WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array ;1
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?-Neither friend nor foe
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
See note to the previous sonnet.-ED.
Thou dost love
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !
Compare Ovid, Meta. Book xi., 1. 623; Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act ii., Scene 2; King Henry IV., Part ii., Act iii., Scene 1; Midsummer Night's Dream, Act iii., Scene 2.-ED.
Hence I am
I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie
FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
MICHAEL ANGELO IN REPLY TO THE PASSAGE UPON HIS STATUE OF NIGHT SLEEPING
In the first volume of Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836, Wordsworth wrote in MS. two translations of a fragment of Michael Angelo's on Sleep, and a translation of some Latin verses by Thomas Warton on the same subject. These fragments were never included in any edition of his published works, and it is impossible to say to what year they belong. They may appropriately enough find a place after the three sonnets To Sleep, belonging to the year 1806, and before the three translations from Michael Angelo, which follow them.-ED.
GRATEFUL is Sleep, my life in stonebound fast;
More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last, On me can Time no happier state bestow
Than to be left unconscious of the woe.
Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.
The very sweetest words that fancy frames,
GRATEFUL is Sleep, more grateful still to be
Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, speak low.
Thus without death how sweet it is to die.
The Latin verse by Thomas Warton, of which the last lines are a translation, is as follows:
Somne veni! quamvis placidissima Mortis imago es,
Huc ades, haud abiture citò! nam sic sine vita
Vivere quam suave est, sic sine morte mori!
Thomas Warton, Fellow of Trinity Coll., Oxford, and Professor of Poetry in that University, is chiefly known by his History of English Poetry (1774-1781).-ED.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
[Translations from Michael Angelo, done at the request of Mr Duppa, whose acquaintance I made through Mr Southey. Mr Duppa was engaged in writing the life of Michael Angelo, and applied to Mr Southey and myself to furnish some specimens of his poetic genius.]
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
For if of our affections none finds grace1
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit ?
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
No mortal object did these eyes behold
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
Which kills the soul: