“’Neath blue-bell or streamer —

        Or tufted wild spray

That keeps, from the dreamer,

        The moonbeam away —

Bright beings! that ponder,

        With half closing eyes,

On the stars which your wonder

        Hath drawn from the skies,

Till they glance thro’ the shade, and

        Come down to your brow

Like – eyes of the maiden

        Who calls on you now —

Arise! from your dreaming

        In violet bowers,

To duty beseeming

        These star-litten hours —

And shake from your tresses

        Encumber’d with dew

The breath of those kisses

        That cumber them too —

(O! how, without you, Love!

        Could angels be blest?)

Those kisses of true love

        That lull’d ye to rest!

Up! – shake from your wing

        Each hindering thing:

The dew of the night —

        It would weight down your flight;

And true love caresses —

        O! leave them apart!

They are light on the tresses,

        But lead on the heart.

Ligeia! Ligeia!

        My beautiful one!

Whose harshest idea

        Will to melody run,

O! is it thy will

        On the breezes to toss?

Or, capriciously still,

        Like the lone Albatross,

Incumbent on night

        (As she on the air)

To keep watch with delight

        On the harmony there?

Ligeia! wherever

        Thy image may be,

No magic shall sever

        Thy music from thee.

Thou hast bound many eyes

        In a dreamy sleep —

But the strains still arise

        Which thy vigilance keep —

The sound of the rain

        Which leaps down to the flower,

And dances again

        In the rhythm of the shower —

The murmur that springs

        From the growing of grass

Are the music of things —

        But are modell’d, alas! —

Away then, my dearest,

        O! hie thee away

To springs that lie clearest

        Beneath the moon-ray —

To lone lake that smiles,

        In its dream of deep rest,

At the many star-isles

        That enjewel its breast —

Where wild flowers, creeping,

        Have mingled their shade,

On its margin is sleeping

        Full many a maid —

Some have left the cool glade, and

        Have slept with the bee —

Arouse them my maiden,

        On moorland and lea —

Go! breathe on their slumber,

        All softly in ear,

The musical number

        They slumber’d to hear —

For what can awaken

        An angel so soon

Whose sleep hath been taken

        Beneath the cold moon,

As the spell which no slumber

        Of witchery may test,

The rhythmical number

        Which lull’d him to rest?”