 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
51
II.
Sweet Sleep! the balm to toil — the dewThat doth our morning strength renew;—
Sweet Spirit of Forgetfulness,
The unfabled Lethe of Distress;—
Blest soother of the Peasant's pillow,
Hushed by the night flies to his rest;—
Companion, o'er the stormy billow,
Of the wet Seaboy on the mast,
Cradled on surges, and rocked by the blast
To and fro, full giddily;—
While Death is awaked by the summons so rude,
He heedeth it not, and his slumber's as good,
As danger were not nigh;
And when, like the Sun, he springs blithe from his bed,
Knows nought of the night, nor the feeling of dread:—
But oh, thou hast been by rude tempest and rage,
Startled from this lone Hermitage.
| The Legend of St. Loy | |