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All sounds that might bestow Rest on the fever'd bed, All slumb'rous sounds and low Are mingled here and wed, And bring no drowsihed. Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread; With wistful eyes that glow And silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me; no? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast them to show Of sacrifice unsped? Of all thy slaves below I most have labored With service sung and said; Have cull'd such buds as blow, Soft poppies white and red, Where thy still gardens grow, And Lethe's waters weep. Why, then, art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

I have loved wind and light, And the bright sea, But, holy and most secret Night, Not as I love and have loved thee.

God, like all highest things, Hides light in shade, And in the night his visitings To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.

The peace of a wandering sky, Silence, only the cry Of the crickets, suddenly still, A bee on the window sill, A bird's wing, rushing and soft, Three flails that tramp in the loft, Summer murmuring Some sweet, slumberous thing, Half asleep:

Only a little holiday of sleep, Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm, A little sleep--it matters not how deep; A little falling feather from thy wing, Merciful Lord,--is it so great a thing?

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie Sleepless!

Come, blessed barrier between day and day. Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets; Does not the sun rise smiling When fair at eve he sets'

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose, The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.

We lay Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound Of far-off torrents charming the still night, To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies Than tired eye-lids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the mass the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

I went into the deserts of dim sleep-- That world which, like an unknown wilderness, Bounds this with its recesses wide and deep

Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life, Come back to me, come back to me! Hold out Your wonderful, wide arms and gather me Again against your breast. I lay above Your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow As waters that obey the moon and lo, Rest infinite was mine and calm. My soul Is sick for want of you. Oh, Morpheus, Heart of my weary heart, come back to me!

Lips Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath Of innocent dreams arose.

A late lark twitters in the quiet skies; And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

Oh, Sleep! it is a gentle thing Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

XL.

What is more gentle than a wind in summer? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? What is more tranquil than a musk rose blowing In a green island, far from all men's knowing? More healthful than the leanness of dales? More secret than a nest of nightingales? More serene than Cordelia's countenance? More full of visions than a high romance? What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmurer of tender lullabies! Light hoverer around our happy pillows! Wreather of poppy buds and weeping willows! Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses! Most happy listener! when the morning blesses Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

My sleep had been embroidered with dim dreams, My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er With flowers, and stirring shades of baffled beams.

Sleep is a blessed thing. All my long life I have known this, its value infinite To man, its symbol of the perfect peace That marks eternity, its marvellous Relief from all the vanities and wounds, The little battles and unrest of soul That we call life. Sleep is a blessed thing, Doubly it has been taught me. All the time I cannot have you, all the heart-sick days Of utter yearning, of eternal ache Of longing, longing for the sight of you, Fade and dissolve at night and you are mine, At least in dreams, at least in blessed dreams.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day, Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain, Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blended alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose could shut and be a bud again.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 'Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key To golden palaces, strange ministrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves And moonlight, aye, to all the mazy world Of silvery enchantment!--who, upfurl'd Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour But renovates and lives?

A sleep Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing.

Now is the blackest hour of the long night, The soul of midnight. Now, the pallid stars Shine in the highest silver and the wind That creepeth chill across the sleeping world Holdeth no hint of morning. I look out Into the glory of the night with tired, Wide, sleepless eyes and think of you. There is The hush of some great spirit o'er the earth. Here, in the silence earth and sky are met And merged into infinity. Oh, God Of all, Thou who beholdest Destiny As simple, Thou who understandest life From birth to re-birth, who knows all our souls, Grant her Thy perfect benediction, rest.

On m'annonce que le spahi Abdelkader n'a pas ?t? attaqu?. Et tout se calme au village, la vie monotone reprend son cours ordinaire, toute de petits n?goces ?pres.

Mograr Foukani

Je descends aujourd'hui vers Hadjerath-M'guil pour voir les autres bless?s d'El-Moungar, rest?s l?-bas.

Un peu apr?s le lever du jour, le train s'engage dans un pays unique, d'une ?tranget? saisissante.

Plus de sables ni d'alfa, plus rien que de la pierre, un immense chaos de pierres bris?es, roul?es, d?chiquet?es, arrach?es du sol comme par un effroyable cataclysme.

Des ar?tes aigu?s chevauchant les unes sur les autres ou se superposant, monstrueuse dentelle tendue sur les rochers, sur les collines d'argile. Des tranch?es, ?troites et profondes comme des corridors, que surplombent des blocs ?normes pos?s en ?quilibre hasardeux, pr?ts ? se d?tacher et ? ?craser le train qui passe.

C'est comme une gigantesque coul?e de lave, vomie par les pitons sombres qui ferment l'horizon, et ayant envahi la vall?e pour s'y refroidir et se figer autour des masses plus anciennes, plus dures, et formant une cro?te boursoufl?e, rugueuse, toute une carcasse de ville d?truite par le feu du ciel.

Et quelle gamme inou?e de couleurs sur ces d?combres! quels reflets ign?s! des roses ternes de m?chefer ? peine ?teint, des jaunes de rouille et des verts ocreux, des violets de mangan?se et des carmins obscurs, sur les argiles froides, avec des veines saillantes d'un bleu gris?tre et des rougeoiements mornes sur les falaises abruptes!

Sur toutes les surfaces de pierre, une teinte uniforme d'un noir de suie, gardant encore comme les traces du feu et des fum?es originelles.

Sombre et splendide d?cor de fournaise p?trifi?e, paysage lunaire d'indicible d?solation et de tragique grandeur sous un ciel souriant, dans la lueur limpide du matin...

Tout ? coup, au sortir d'une tranch?e, apr?s une gare, une vision bien inattendue de fertilit? et de vie: le ksar charmant de Mograr-Foukani, avec sa petite palmeraie, dans le lit humide d'un oued.

Une trentaine de hautes maisons berb?res, en toub, d'une couleur de chamois p?le, serr?es les unes contre les autres, enjambent des ruelles obscures et groupent leurs terrasses in?gales en un d?sordre gracieux.

Au sommet des murs, sous les poutres en troncs de dattiers des toits, une d?coration fruste faite de briques de terre s?che, pos?es de c?t? en festons aigus.

Dans la palmeraie, la moire tr?s verte des petits champs d'orge, sous la famille murmurante des palmiers bleus, entre les murs bas o? se penchent des grenadiers en fleurs.

Les rayons obliques du soleil levant glissent entre les troncs cisel?s, allumant, au bout des palmes, de courtes lueurs d'acier, se jouant sur la terre dor?e, sur les fruits sanglants des tomates et des piments.

Une oasis ?tal?e dans le jour naissant, en pleine tourmente volcanique, ?close en une ?troite fissure dans la lave morte.

Sur un rocher, au-dessus de la voie, une petite fille v?tue de laine pourpre, baign?e de lumi?re blonde, regarde passer le train.

Elle est belle et rieuse, avec la gr?ce simple de ses mouvements, la joie na?ve qui illumine son petit visage rond, son teint ambr? et la caresse de ses larges yeux roux.

Une autre fillette survient et, par jeu, par coquetteries, pour se montrer, elles se lutinent en riant.

Mais, brusquement, nous rentrons dans la fantasmagorie de pierre, en pleine vie min?rale, obscure et silencieuse.

Hadjerath-M'guil

Une gare, donjon isol? parmi les roches d?chiquet?es.

A quinze cents m?tres, une redoute en toub, dominant quelques masures en planches, sur la pente d'un rocher au pied des derniers contreforts du Djebel Beni-Smir.

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