 | Poems |  |
25
TWO SONNETS.
I. SLEEP.
And now 'tis Night, and with oblivious plumeSleep fans the eyelids of the sons of care,
And souls to their mysterious haunts repair
Where the dim dreamland spreads its warping gloom.
O sweet and soft the glories that illume
The land of dreams, and multiform as fair,
Brighter than gorgeous tissues of the loom,
Or sunset splendours of the waking air!
The worldling and his brother of the soil,
This one his toilsome, that his tedious day,
His suit the lawyer, and the smith his toil,
His rags the beggar, and the child its play—
Each his peculiar care forgets a while,
And all, sweet Sleep, under thy peaceful sway.
26
II. DEATH.
But if thou findest eyes that will not close,—Eyes that through suffering wet or, in despair
Guarding a secret which they cannot share,
Tearless refuse the respite of repose—
Not thine, sweet Sleep, to end the sufferer's woes;
Believe not thou canst dissipate a care
So dark; thy blandishments forbear;
There is a grief that no cessation knows.
Yet, ere thou goëst, hear the sufferer crave
One boon of thee, and oh! thou need'st not fear
To kill a sorrow where thou canst not save,
However dark the sad request appear—
Call thy more pallid brother of the grave,
He only is the true physician here.
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