A mesmerist murmurs over a suffering man, urging him to sleep and forget his pain. She admits she does not love him, yet pities him deeply, because the man she loves might have been just as lost, comforted by another’s hand. Her compassion is mixed with guilt and helpless longing. She tells him to forget everything—life, love, pain, and even her face, since she can never be his. Then she imagines her soul weeping healing rain, restoring a second youth to his gloom. When the spell ends, he says he feels better, but reveals the cruel catch: what would truly cure him would kill him, so he begs her not to tempt him to break his chain. The poem’s mood is hushed, electrically intimate, and unbearably sad—a temporary relief that only deepens the ache.
The Magnetic Lady to Her Patient — Summary
'Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain; My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; And from my fingers flow The powers of life, and like a sign, Seal thee from thine hour of woe; And brood on thee, but may not blend With thine.
'Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; But when I think that he Who made and makes my lot As full of flowers as thine of weeds, Might have been lost like thee; And that a hand which was not mine Might then have charmed his agony As I another's--my heart bleeds For thine.
'Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of The dead and the unborn Forget thy life and love; Forget that thou must wake forever; Forget the world's dull scorn; Forget lost health, and the divine Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; And forget me, for I can never Be thine.
'Like a cloud big with a May shower, My soul weeps healing rain On thee, thou withered flower! It breathes mute music on thy sleep Its odour calms thy brain! Its light within thy gloomy breast Spreads like a second youth again. By mine thy being is to its deep Possessed.
'The spell is done. How feel you now?' 'Better--Quite well,' replied The sleeper.--'What would do You good when suffering and awake? What cure your head and side?--' 'What would cure, that would kill me, Jane: And as I must on earth abide Awhile, yet tempt me not to break My chain.'