 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
129
TO SLEEP.
Come to me, angel of the weary-hearted.
Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I, too, may rest—even I: ah! haste to me.
Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I, too, may rest—even I: ah! haste to me.
I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, “Mother,”
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, “Mother,”
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?
Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.
I have no heart to rove in realms of Faëry—
To follow Fancy at her elfin call;
I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.
To follow Fancy at her elfin call;
I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.
130
Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,
Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;
There is no gift immortals may inherit
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.
Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;
There is no gift immortals may inherit
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.
And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never
Be memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee:
Would thou couldst bring oblivion for ever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
Be memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee:
Would thou couldst bring oblivion for ever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |