 | Poems |  |
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.
| Poems | |