IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
27
I dream of music? Something in their hues
All melting into colour'd harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp,
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian Peasant's Lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With "Roma, Roma?" or the Madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian.Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still known
Within th' Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
