Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1835.pdf/39

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chain is on his hand and on his wrist— Even the narrow limits of his cell He cannot trace. How drearily the light From the sepulchral lamp falls o'er the walls, Which gleam with constant damp. On every stone Are graven melancholy characters; Names that are histories. He cannot rest, That captive warrior, for his pulses beat With an impatient sense of injury; His brow is feverish with unquiet thoughts; And though he folds his arms as if to sleep, It will not visit him. Old friend and true companion! soothing Sleep, Yes fly, like other friends. How easily Did your sweet influence fall on my free head, Cool like a lovely crown of myrtle boughs. Beloved Sleep! amid the clash of arms, On the rough torrent of unquiet life, I rested, breathing lightly as a child, Weary and cradled in your mother arms. When the storm swept the leaves from off the bough, And rushed thro' crashing branches, yet my heart Was in its depths untroubled,—and I slept. What is it now shakes my tranquillity? It is the axe's clang laid to my roots. I shudder as I stand—I feel my fall Before it comes. The traitors will prevail! Thundering amid the forest comes the oak Down upon earth, while yet its crown is green. Yet wherefore now—thou who so oft hast driven, Like the soap bubbles on the air dispersed, So many heavy cares away—why now Can I not do as I have frequent done A thousand times—flung off their weight with thee? Since when has death grown fearful; with whose face, As with familiar images of life, Thou hast been wont to live; what ails thee, Sleep!