 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
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SLEEP.
Since too much waking hurts, O, gentle Sleep!
Even against thy will thou must be woo'd,
And forced the restless soul entranced to keep,
Till we o'ercome the deadly waking mood.
Sweet influence! yea, thou must be forced to steep
In bland oblivion thoughts that are not good
For entertainment—since they bring us pain,
And, without thee, will craze the fevered brain.
Even against thy will thou must be woo'd,
And forced the restless soul entranced to keep,
Till we o'ercome the deadly waking mood.
Sweet influence! yea, thou must be forced to steep
In bland oblivion thoughts that are not good
For entertainment—since they bring us pain,
And, without thee, will craze the fevered brain.
Shalt thou, on alpine heights, in polar cold,
The bloodless dormouse and the sullen bear
In one long night of no unrest enfold,
In frozen curtains that admit no care;
While man, as lord of breathing things, enrolled
In God's own order writ, shall have no share
Of solace, which his nature needs must claim,
Both for the mind o'erwrought and wearied frame?
The bloodless dormouse and the sullen bear
In one long night of no unrest enfold,
In frozen curtains that admit no care;
While man, as lord of breathing things, enrolled
In God's own order writ, shall have no share
Of solace, which his nature needs must claim,
Both for the mind o'erwrought and wearied frame?
Thee the old poets, in immortal lays,
Adored as universal nature's rest—
Peace of the soul, whose influence care obeys,
Sore care who listens to no other hest;
As still restoring, after anxious days,
The limbs and faculties with toil oppress'd—
Refitting man his daily race to run
Of toil, beneath the ever-travelling sun,
Adored as universal nature's rest—
Peace of the soul, whose influence care obeys,
Sore care who listens to no other hest;
As still restoring, after anxious days,
The limbs and faculties with toil oppress'd—
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Of toil, beneath the ever-travelling sun,
Thy charm the skilful as supreme confess
Above all alchymy and magic spells;
Of different modes to win thy bland caress,
The antique leech in lore black-lettered tells.
But when grim night-mare griefs the soul oppress,
Not his the craft thy presence that compels;
Dark Melancholy's patient cannot find
In foolish physic, slumber for the mind.
Above all alchymy and magic spells;
Of different modes to win thy bland caress,
The antique leech in lore black-lettered tells.
But when grim night-mare griefs the soul oppress,
Not his the craft thy presence that compels;
Dark Melancholy's patient cannot find
In foolish physic, slumber for the mind.
Nor unto him luxurious rest deny
Through a whole third of earths' diurnal phases;
But half asleep in revery to lie
While light's original fountain streams and blazes,
And nature works beneath the laughing sky,
Doating, in fond conceits, and dreamy mazes,
Sinks him below all God's own quick creations,
Nor will one muse inspire his meditations,
Through a whole third of earths' diurnal phases;
But half asleep in revery to lie
While light's original fountain streams and blazes,
And nature works beneath the laughing sky,
Doating, in fond conceits, and dreamy mazes,
Sinks him below all God's own quick creations,
Nor will one muse inspire his meditations,
For that sweet moistening sleep must fall on men
As heaven's own dew, impalpable and fine,
And unperceived, till cool, clear morning, when
On every blade and leaf impearled they shine,
So he who well has slept, new hopes again
Finds fresh and sparkling; and the god divine,
Which we call reason, prompts him through the day
To struggle with his fortune as he may.
As heaven's own dew, impalpable and fine,
And unperceived, till cool, clear morning, when
On every blade and leaf impearled they shine,
So he who well has slept, new hopes again
Finds fresh and sparkling; and the god divine,
Which we call reason, prompts him through the day
To struggle with his fortune as he may.
Oh sage philosophy! teach us how to slumber,
When the intractable brain is hot or dry,
With all the pangs and fears we cannot number,
And all the hopes that blossom, fade, and die;
With the great businesses our thoughts that cumber,
Whereat the angels laugh—with reason why!
When all that thou canst teach us, thou hast taught,
Oh sage philosophy! thy lore is naught!
When the intractable brain is hot or dry,
With all the pangs and fears we cannot number,
And all the hopes that blossom, fade, and die;
With the great businesses our thoughts that cumber,
Whereat the angels laugh—with reason why!
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Oh sage philosophy! thy lore is naught!
Hark! the loud thunder roars—thine enemy,
Sleep, even when thou art kind; and thro' the shutters
The lurid lightning sheds its blazonry;
But I am not alarmed, though the storm utters
Its threatenings; for I am at peace with thee,
My conscience. Is it so? stern conscience mutters,
I do fear God. And yet I cannot keep
Mine even reckoning with thee, oh sleep!
Sleep, even when thou art kind; and thro' the shutters
The lurid lightning sheds its blazonry;
But I am not alarmed, though the storm utters
Its threatenings; for I am at peace with thee,
My conscience. Is it so? stern conscience mutters,
I do fear God. And yet I cannot keep
Mine even reckoning with thee, oh sleep!
Sleep let the wretch who waits and dreads to-morrow,
Lose but one little gap of hurrying time;
Revive the dead, to sooth his heart's dear sorrow,
Or steep in Lethe unforgotten crime;
Or teach the flagging frame at least to borrow
Some little strength before the matin prime.
Vainly invoked, oh sleep! thou canst not give
Relief to those who, fearing evil, live.
Lose but one little gap of hurrying time;
Revive the dead, to sooth his heart's dear sorrow,
Or steep in Lethe unforgotten crime;
Or teach the flagging frame at least to borrow
Some little strength before the matin prime.
Vainly invoked, oh sleep! thou canst not give
Relief to those who, fearing evil, live.
Not to the clown, who for his rent unpaid
Must on to-morrow leave his low-roofed cot;
Not to the king, who for his sceptre swayed
Unwisely, waits a battle to be fought;
Him only canst thou with thy influence aid
Who, sentenced, for all earth cares not a jot—
Condemned to die i' the morning—who has pass'd
The bitterness of death, before life's last.
Must on to-morrow leave his low-roofed cot;
Not to the king, who for his sceptre swayed
Unwisely, waits a battle to be fought;
Him only canst thou with thy influence aid
Who, sentenced, for all earth cares not a jot—
Condemned to die i' the morning—who has pass'd
The bitterness of death, before life's last.
For he sleeps soundly, when he hath no need
Of thee, against that morrow's setting sun,
For whom irrevocably 'tis decreed
His business in this tedious world is done;
Whose hope is dead, whose fear is past remeed,
And whose eternity has now begun,
No dreams disturb his slumbers who must wake
To meet the axe, the gibbet, or the stake.
Of thee, against that morrow's setting sun,
For whom irrevocably 'tis decreed
His business in this tedious world is done;
Whose hope is dead, whose fear is past remeed,
And whose eternity has now begun,
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To meet the axe, the gibbet, or the stake.
Might I interrogate thee, thou who art
Death's younger brother, and his counterfeit,
Fain would I ask thee if, when we depart
From heaven's clear presence, and in darkness meet
The worms for our companions, in their mart
Of human food, shall visions foul or sweet
Visit our slumbers, ere the trumpet's peal
Shall summon us to endless wo or weal?
Death's younger brother, and his counterfeit,
Fain would I ask thee if, when we depart
From heaven's clear presence, and in darkness meet
The worms for our companions, in their mart
Of human food, shall visions foul or sweet
Visit our slumbers, ere the trumpet's peal
Shall summon us to endless wo or weal?
If ere the soul puts its old vesture on,
Transformed to rapturous or to burning weeds,
It shall do homage at the eternal throne,
Or penance in dread Hades for its deeds?
Ah, could thine oracle the truth make known
From those dark halls whence never voice proceeds,
It were in vain, dull god, to question thee,
What portion hast thou of eternity?
Transformed to rapturous or to burning weeds,
It shall do homage at the eternal throne,
Or penance in dread Hades for its deeds?
Ah, could thine oracle the truth make known
From those dark halls whence never voice proceeds,
It were in vain, dull god, to question thee,
What portion hast thou of eternity?
For in the grave, whether our dreams be fraught
With amaranths, harpings, and sweet gales of heaven,
Or demon-haunted, is to us as naught,
Who are imbued with the immortal leaven.
Time is not, if we lie devoid of thought;
And if the sure expectancy be given,
Whether we wake to glory or to shame,
'Twill at the resurrection be the same.
With amaranths, harpings, and sweet gales of heaven,
Or demon-haunted, is to us as naught,
Who are imbued with the immortal leaven.
Time is not, if we lie devoid of thought;
And if the sure expectancy be given,
Whether we wake to glory or to shame,
'Twill at the resurrection be the same.
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |