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When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head—
"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was flutt'ring now, as quickly to depart;
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart.
Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For strait so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mov'd from his sweet Trance!
My Sara came, with gentlest Look divine;
Bright shone her Eye, yet tender was its beam:
