To the Morning
Satisfaction for Sleep
WHAT succour can I hope the Muse will send,Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse’s friend?What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,Unless the Muse sing my apology?O! in that morning of my shame, when ILay folded up in sleep’s captivity;How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes,Into thy modest veil! how didst thou riseTwice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst runTo draw the curtains and awake the sun!Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,And seeing the loathed object, hid for shameHis head in thy fair bosom, and still hidesMe from his patronage; I pray, he chides;And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me takeMy own Apollo, try if I can makeHis Lethe be my Helicon, and seeIf Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.Hence ’tis my humble fancy finds no wings,No nimble raptures, starts to heaven and bringsEnthusiastic flames, such as can giveMarrow to my plump genius, make it liveDressed in the glorious madness of a muse,Whose feet can walk the milky-way, and chooseHer starry throne; whose holy heats can warmThe grave, and hold up an exalted armTo lift me from my lazy urn, and climbUpon the stooped shoulders of old Time,And trace eternity. But all is dead,All these delicious hopes are buriedIn the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,Where mercy cannot find them; but, O thouBright lady of the morn, pity doth lieSo warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die;Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise,O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes,And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kissWill kill his anger, and revive my bliss.So to the treasure of thy pearly dewThrice will I pay three tears, to show how trueMy grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knockAt the oriental gates, and duly mockThe early lark’s shrill orisons to beAn anthem at the day’s nativity.And the same rosy-fingered hand of thine,That shuts night’s dying eyes, shall open mine.But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that IWas ever known to be thy votary.No more my pillow shall thine altar be,Nor will I offer any more to theeMyself a melting sacrifice; I’m bornAgain a fresh child of the buxom morn,Heir of the sun’s first beams; why threat’st thou so?Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne’er knowThy downy finger dwell upon their eyes;Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries.