SOFT hangs the opiate in the brain,
And lulling soothes the edge of pain,
Till harshest sound, far off or near,
Sings floating in its mellow sphere.
What wakes me from my heavy dream?
Or am I still asleep?
Those long and soft vibrations seem
A slumberous charm to keep.
The graceful play, a moment stopt,
Distance again unrolls,
Like silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls.
I question of the poppies red,
The fairy flaunting band,
While I, a weed with drooping head,
Within their phalanx stand:
'Some airy one, with scarlet cap,
The name unfold to me
Of this new minstrel who can lap
Sleep in his melody!"
Bright grew their scarlet-kerchiefd heads.
As freshening winds had blown,
And from their gently-swaying beds
They sang in undertone:
"Oh he is but a little owl,
The smallest of his kin,
Who sits beneath the midnight's cowl
And makes this airy din."
"Deceitful tongues of fiery tints!
Far more than this ye know,
That he is your enchanted prince
Doom'd as an owl to go;--
"Nor his fond play for years hath stopt.
But nightly he unrolls
His silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls.'
