When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
Here all things in there place remain,
As all were order’d, ages since.
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain,
And bring the fated fairy Prince.
[1] All editions up to and including 1851:—He must have been a jolly king.
The Sleeping Beauty
(First printed in 1830, but does not reappear again till 1842. No alteration since 1842.)
1
Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purpled coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,[[1]]
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.
2
The silk star-broider’d[[2]]coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm,
With bracelets of the diamond bright:
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.
3
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.[[3]]
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand[[4]] upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.