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Title: Address To Sleep
Author: George Borrow [
More Titles by Borrow]
From the Italian of Vincenzio Filicaia.
Sweet death of sense, oblivion of ill,
Sleep! who from war, from time to time, dost bear
Poor, wretched mortals, and in peace dost still--
Compose the discords, which my bosom tear,
For a brief space, and kindly interpose
Thy soothing wings betwixt me and my care.
These eyes, which seem in love with weeping, close!
And make my senses for a time thy bower,
That whilst I sleep I may my sorrows lose.
I do not crave that thou the wand of power,
Three times in Lethe dipp'd, at me shouldst shake,
And all my senses sprinkle o'er and o'er;
Let souls, more fortunate, thereof partake--
Of languid rest a portion scant and slight,
My weary, wandering eyes content will make.
Now all the world is hush'd; to sleep invite
The falling stars, and lull'd appears the main,
And prone the winds have slumber'd on their flight;
I, I alone--who will believe my strain?
I, I alone, in this repose profound
And universal, no repose can gain;
Four suns, and moons as many, have come round,
Since tasted last these wretched lights of mine
Of thee, sweet cordial to the sick and sound.
There on the rough peaks of the Apennine,
Or where to Arno's breast in dower doth throw
The Pesa limpid waves and crystalline--
With eye-balls motionless, and hearts which glow
With zeal and faith, repel thee as a sin,
Perchance some band of eremites e'en now;
O come from thence! and for one hour within
My bosom deign to tarry, then retreat,
And in some other breast admission win;
I call thee thence! but if thou'dst hither fleet
From, where now Love excludes thy gentle might--
Love with its phantasies so bitter sweet,--
Avaunt, avaunt! full wretched is my plight!
But honor, virtue I adore 'bove all,
Nor to profane night's sacred hours delight,
Descend on me, as on some mountain tall
Descends the snow, and there, dissolving soon,
Back to its pristine element doth fall;
Or that same dew, which suckleth bland and boon
Each green grass blade when morn begins to peep,
That none neglected may its faith impugn.
Before I die thy humid pinions sweep
Above me once, but O to stain forbear
The heart which still immaculate I keep!
But thou com'st not, and now, with rosy hair
From Ganges hastening, to all things again
Their native hue restores Day's harbinger.
Perhaps thou'st come, and ah, my cruel pain
And wakeful thoughts thee ingress have denied
Into my eyes, or hurl'd thee out amain.
Since, blundering archer, thou dost shoot aside,
Or snapp'st thy every dart my breast upon,
To me thy wand be never more applied!
Away, away! grim Death can blunt alone
My miseries' point, and ne'er till life be spent
I shall the hour of dear repose have won.
O how the strife within is vehement!
Now reason wins, now madness holds the sway;
So much my ill can do, nor I prevent.
O may this soul of mine from out its clay
Fly to repose elsewhere! I'm sure to see
My last hour once; and though far, far away
The feign'd death keep, the true shall visit me.
[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Address To Sleep
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